


Those Permanent Stars

by betweentheheavesofstorm



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Combeferre Knows Everything, Courf/Ferre subtext, E/R - Freeform, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, F/F, Gen, M/M, Nonbinary Jehan, Slow Build, and Javert is the evil British government, and R isn't much better, but cosette/eponine as well, in london, in which barricades are used to fight zombies, lots of people die because I'm evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-03-11 04:06:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 63,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3313262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweentheheavesofstorm/pseuds/betweentheheavesofstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern Day Zombie Apocalypse AU. </p><p>Grantaire is managing by himself when he accidentally joins a group of students striving for mutual survival. There is angst, art, requited and unrequited love. Also a lot of zombies.</p><p> </p><p>The title comes not from Javert's song 'Stars' in the musical, but from the Wilfred Owen poem 'But I was Looking At The Permanent Stars'. A longer explanation of why is available if anyone cares to hear it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Grantaire was a Gryffindor. This was news to him. He wasn't sure he was especially courageous or selfless, and certainly had no affinity for the colour red. He thought cats were OK, but lions were overrated. That didn't add up to a Gryffindor in his book.

Annoyingly, his computer seemed to disagree. Maybe it was being contrary because it wasn't his computer, but one he'd picked up off the street. Clues about the previous owner were all over the desktop. The Harry Potter wallpaper and assorted files of primary school projects indicated that it had been a kid. So far, the laptop's best feature was the Sorting Hat game in the Downloads folder. 

He'd only just discovered this quiz, and so far had taken it three times. On the first and third tries Grantaire had been sorted into Gryffindor, during the second he had aggressively chosen all the wrong answers and ended up in Hufflepuff. After marveling at J.K. Rowling's ability to create bullshit words and have them accepted by the rest of the world as gospel, he'd taken the quiz again.

Lacking motivation to do anything else, he lay sprawled on the sofa watching an animated lion roar against a red background. The laptop screen was the only source of light in the room. It illuminated his immediate surroundings with a headache-inducing glow.

Grantaire thought about turning one of the lamps on, but it didn't seem worth it. He'd grown used to a perpetual state of darkness, having done his best to make the flat look uninhabited. Closed the curtains, and when the insubstantial material hadn't proved thick enough, reinforced them with bed sheets. All the curtainless windows he'd boarded up and the door was wedged shut, a bed and a bookcase moved in front of it.

He got up slowly and stretched, enjoying the oddly satisfying cracking noise coming from his bones. Time had been behaving oddly of late; either dragging along at a pace that would have shamed a snail, or racing by so quickly you would have thought it was late for something. Today it had adopted the latter attitude. Grantaire regarded the onscreen lion with renewed distaste, and shut the laptop abruptly. He needed to find some decent games, or he was going to go mad. Given how much the flat's previous owners had spent on speakers alone, you'd think they'd have some form of entertainment that wasn't a sappy romance. Grantaire had watched all of their film collection, or as it could be called, How To Fall In Love When You're Straight And White: A Definitive Guide.

He stretched again, yawned, and made his way over to the kitchen. The fridge was disappointingly empty, as were the cupboards. Nowadays fresh food was hard to come by, but it was nice to keep his Pepsi chilled. Speaking of which, he was nearly out of soft drinks.

Heaving an exaggerated sigh, Grantaire started searching for his coat. He'd put off a supply run for days, surviving on hitherto untested concoctions of tinned fruit and breadsticks. The pasta had disappeared days ago. Grantaire found his coat and put it on, mentally composing a shopping list. Pasta, rice, noodles. There was a Sainsbury's five blocks away. The freezers had still been working when he'd been there last, so he added frozen fish and chips to the list. Some hot food would be nice. He found his left shoe in the bathroom and his right under a footstall. Most of the carbonated drinks would be gone by now; hopefully he could get what remained. Failing that, there was always water.

Grantaire exited the flat the same way he always did, via the fire escape. It required partially dismantling the barricade he'd built against that window. Once outside, the climb down the fire escape was easy. Grantaire had done his best to smash up the metal stairs, so that the unpracticed climber would have a hard time.  It wasn't just to keep out the ravaging hordes of the undead, though it did that too. It also guarded against any other people who fancied taking over such a secure spot. Grantaire had lost a hideout to other survivors twice before; he had no intention of letting it happen again.

He reached the bottom of the rickety stairs and jumped the last four feet to the ground. After wall-to-wall carpet, the tarmac felt reassuringly hard under his trainers. Hoisting his bag more securely onto his back, Grantaire set off in the direction of the supermarket.

*

Having remained inside for days, Grantaire felt especially jumpy out in the open. The fresh air was nice. It was a fine March day, clear and bright, though when the wind rose it carried with it a sharp chill. The trees across the road were coming into leaf. It was good to see something green that didn't come out of a tin.

He got a whole two blocks without seeing a single corpse. Those few moments of pretend normalcy had been nice, Grantaire thought, stepping carefully around a group of alley cats picking at a ribcage. The rest of the body was nowhere in sight.

'Go and find some birds to eat,' Grantaire muttered, in the general direction of the cats. 'That stuff will make you ill.' Though not too ill. So far, the virus hadn't affected any other species. The worst the cats would experience would experience would be a stomachache.

There were more bodies closer to the high street. It was a general rule of thumb that the more resourceful an area, the higher the number of casualties. Last week, Grantaire had had a real job locating a hardware store that hadn't contained any zombies, active or otherwise.

Thankfully, the supermarket seemed to be clean. He dragged the automatic doors open, careful to shut them behind him. The Sainsbury's was a mess, devoid of anything really valuable. Everyone's initial response to the epidemic had been first to panic and then loot every shop they could find. 

Grantaire bypassed the messiest aisles without registering them, heading automatically for the one containing packaged food.

Someone else had definitely been here recently, and they hadn't left him a lot to work with. Grantaire found a couple of packets of pasta, and one of noodles. From the crushed nature of the packet, he guessed they'd all be broken up, but shattered noodles were still better than no noodles.

Among the other things he collected were two new toothbrushes, a tube of toothpaste and some rubber gloves. There wasn't any toilet paper left, but kitchen roll would suffice. He was halfway through contemplating a bottle of bleach when a thought struck him.

Leaving the bleach on the shelf, Grantaire hurried back to the electronics section. It was not a cheerful sight. All the TVs and phones were either gone or broken, and somebody had knocked all the headphones off the shelf. Ignoring the mess, Grantaire walked down to the far end of the aisle.

He didn't have much hope, but he wasn't disappointed. One pack of batteries remained on the shelf. Double As. He reached out, grinning to himself, when a sharp voice cut across the silence. 'Hey!'

Grantaire nearly jumped out of his skin.  He hadn't heard anyone approach, but then again he hadn't really been listening.

'Those are mine.' The voice belonged to a girl about his own age, glaring at him with undisguised ferocity. She wasn't very tall and she wasn't very big, two facts that were rendered irrelevant by the huge spiked staff she was holding. It was as tall as she was, evidently homemade, and as weapons went it was formidable. Grantaire's knives suddenly seemed very small in comparison.

'What are yours?' he asked innocently, slowly retracting the hand holding the batteries. 'Cause the other day a guy tried to steal my shoes, even though they have my name written on the label. Who'd want those, when there's a shoe shop just down the road?' he shook his head. 'The nerve of some people.'

The girl refused to be distracted. Her eyes were tracking the movement of the hand holding the batteries. She took a step closer. 'Freeze.'

Grantaire froze. Half of his brain was suggesting that he should run, though he wasn't sure that was the best idea. If appearances were anything, the girl looked fast, and while her staff would slow her down, his backpack wasn't going to do him any favours.

'Give me those,' she said, extending her hand slowly.

Once again, Grantaire opted to stall. 'Why?'

'Why?' she frowned, though she refused to be thrown off course. 'Because my little sister's torch is dead and she's afraid of the dark. Because I will totally pound your face in if you don't.'

Flight, Grantaire decided, was not a wholly unreasonable policy. If he ran now, he could duck down the clothing aisle and get to the door from there. Depending on the speed of the girl's reflexes, he might not even break anything on his way out.

This plan made sense until somebody appeared at the other end of the aisle. A lanky bespectacled boy, and behind him… oh great, a whole group of teenagers.

'It's a party,' Grantaire muttered.

'What's going on?' the boy asked, managing to sound both anxious and menacing at the same time. He'd probably be a great actor, Grantaire thought.

'He's got the last pack of batteries,' the girl said, gesturing with her staff. 'We need those.'

'I got here first,' said Grantaire weakly.

The girl ignored him. 'For Azelma,' she said, in a tone of voice that wasn't pleading exactly - more like stating a sensitive fact.

The boy softened. He looked over his shoulder and jerked his head, calling somebody else over.

'C'mon, mate,' Grantaire found himself saying. 'They're just batteries.'

'We've got kids with us,' the girl argued. 'Give them here.' She started forwards again, her staff held threateningly.

'Éponine.' A second boy had joined the first. Grantaire couldn't help staring at him. In a world where everyone was prey, that guy practically had a target pinned to his chest. Either he was colourblind or just really vain, because in place of neutral, camouflaged clothes he was wearing a bright red leather jacket. Combined with delicate features, shaggily curly blond hair and a chiseled jaw, and he was definitely the hottest person Grantaire had ever seen. Celebrities included.

'Let him have the batteries,' the god said dismissively, still addressing the girl. 'We're not about to start killing people over supermarket supplies. We've got everything else. Let's go.'

Éponine lowered her staff with some reluctance. She walked past Grantaire to rejoin her group, making sure to give him evils as she passed. He stuffed the batteries quickly into the top of his backpack.

'Heavens' sake, Enjolras,' she said to the blond boy. 'I wasn't going to kill him.'

Grantaire's stomach lurched. Enjolras. For all its weirdness, the name sounded worryingly familiar.

That was why he remained rooted to the spot, when a more sensible person would have run. The group was ignoring him, instead gathered to confer in whispers. Maybe somebody knew where else they could find batteries.

God, why was that name so familiar? Grantaire had definitely heard it before, and when he tried to dredge up the memory it drew with it the sound of a female voice. It wasn't his mother's, and yet he associated it with being young.

He was still frozen in Think Mode when the boy with glasses came up and tapped him on the arm. Grantaire looked up, and the boy began,  'Hey, we were just wondering if you wanted to come with us. I don't know if you're with anyone else - ' he coughed, ' - but it's safest in a team. Grantaire, isn't it? Feuilly reckons he went to your primary school. I'm Courfeyrac, by the way.'

Grantaire did remember Feuilly, though that wasn't the same as knowing him. He had a vague memory of an undersized, overachieving kid who'd worn the same pair of torn up trainers for four years. Not torn up in a cool way, but actually falling apart. One time Grantaire had noticed a gaping hole in one of the soles. Despite this observation, they'd never really spoken.

Yet apparently occupying the same classroom for six years was enough to warrant an invitation to join the Dream Team. Hot guys aside, the prospect didn't hold much appeal.

'Thanks, but no thanks,' Grantaire said to Courfeyrac. 'I'm good by myself.'

For someone who didn't know Grantaire, Courfeyrac seemed disappointed. 'We have Oreos,' he said, in the same way one would say "we have unicorns." 'Got maybe what are the last Oreos in Britain. You sure?'

'Yeah,' Grantaire nodded to emphasize how sure he was. The whole encounter was making him steadily more uncomfortable. Éponine was no longer blocking his escape, so he started backing away. With a mumbled, 'Uh, see you around,' he fled the scene.

*

If he always had to pay for supplies with awkward meetings, then he might run the risk of starvation. It hadn't been too bad, Grantaire told himself, walking as speedily as he could with his heavy backpack. He hadn't actually interacted with anyone he knew - familiarity of Enjolras aside. It could have been a lot worse, like one of his primary school teachers - and wow, now he had a new nightmare. Running into Miss Clarke or Mrs Stephens had the potential to be excruciatingly embarrassing, though he hoped there was a much smaller chance that they'd threaten him with spiked sticks.

Grantaire turned down a suburban street and tried to think about practical things. Like, what was he going to do, entertainment-wise? He'd got enough food to last a few days, so it was unlikely he'd be venturing out of his flat anytime soon.

There was a video shop at the end of the road. Anything popular would be long gone, and it was quite exposed - but, well, what was life without a little risk?

Changing direction, Grantaire decided that if he prepared himself and didn't get his hopes up, he wouldn't be disappointed. He might get there and find My Little Pony DVDs the only thing on offer.

The shop wasn't far. It had clearly seen its share of visitors; the windows were smashed and dirty, and the door kicked in. Grantaire stepped over a pile of shattered discs and ducked through the doorway.

It was even filthier inside, and the dimness wasn't helping. Up against the posters, murky stains and spiraled cracks in the glass, daylight didn't have much of a chance. He squinted, and then fished in his back pocket for a torch. The thin beam of light didn't help much, but it was something. Grantaire directed it over the empty shelves, hoping to find something worth his time. Right now, he would settle for the first edition of Sims.

He moved further into the shop, playing the light over the places where the plastic cases were supposed to be. The chaos was rather depressing. He reached the end of the aisle, and the light hit something that wasn't a wall.

Grantaire came to an abrupt halt. For a long moment he stared into a pair of dead, sunken eyes just inches from his own. Then he let out a yell and stumbled backwards. In hindsight, he really should have expected this. It was exactly why he avoided most public hotspots.

'Stupid romances,' he muttered, retreating hastily. Other zombies were emerging from the shadows, fixing him with an eerie stare.

When they did move, it was with startling quickness. They should be slow and stupid, the way they are in the movies, Grantaire thought, swiveling around to face the shop exit. For the second time that way, his way was blocked. 

'Shit,' said Grantaire. He wasn't sure if he was talking to himself or the undead; either way it helped to swear. 'Seriously. Fuck.'

He pulled the cleaver off his backpack and swept it in a wide arc. His assailants were not at all deterred. He cut a hand off one and gave another a sizeable gash across its forehead, but they didn't seem to notice the wounds. They were pressing in on him now, forcing him back towards the window. It had been a while since Grantaire had needed to fight, and his skills were decidedly rusty. The backpack full of supplies was weighing him down; he shrugged it off and let it fall to the ground.

He took another step backwards and tripped over an empty disk case. Balance lost, he swayed and his back collided painfully with the cracked glass. To his relief, it held. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see out onto the main street. A group of people was walking past. He thought they too were zombies, until he saw a flash of red that could only be Enjolras's jacket.

Help was out there, but there wasn't much he could do to get it. The reanimated corpse of an old woman was reaching for him. Her skin had sloughed off the lower half of her skull, revealing a horrible set of grinning teeth. Grantaire slashed wildly with his knife, but her rotting fingers closed around the blade and held it in a surprisingly strong grip. She twisted it suddenly, and he let go. His other knife was tucked into his sock, but he couldn't reach it. Shit.

The remnants of the door flew inward. Grantaire was vaguely aware of sudden light and shouting, and then the old woman was wrenched away from him. Her body jerked, and her head left her body in one clean blow.

Enjolras's group had burst into the shop, and had set about dispatching the assembled zombies with intimidating speed. Grantaire stood stock-still, unable to register the reality of the situation. The overhead lights evidently still worked, because somebody had turned them on, fully illuminating the chaotic scene. Severed limbs were flying in all directions and undead bodies were dropping like flies.

A hand grabbed Grantaire's arm and he reacted instinctively, shoving it away with all his might. It was only when he heard a high cry of surprise that he realised the hand hadn't belonged to a zombie, but to a living child. The kid was lying on the floor surrounded by broken glass, his face betraying his shock.

'Gavroche!' Éponine whirled around. The end of her staff would have hit Grantaire in the chest if he hadn't moved out of the way. 'Get out of here!'

The boy started to get up, but when he put weight on his right leg he blanched and nearly fell. Éponine left the fray and moved to crouch beside him.

The two were dangerously exposed. Grantaire looked wildly around for a weapon, and to his relief saw that the fight was drawing to a close. Only one boy was still fighting, the others gathered around to spectate. Of all the corpses present, this last was the freshest. It was bleeding from multiple wounds, and every time the boy severed an artery a fresh spray fountained through the air. The boy's entire upper torso was crimson.

'Go Combeferre!' one of the other boys yelled. Combeferre sighed, shifted his weight to the side, and beheaded the zombie with a practiced blow.

'Guys,' Éponine called from across the room. 'Get over here.'

They didn't need telling twice. Combeferre's victory was fleeting as they gathered around Éponine and Gavroche, passing Grantaire without so much as a glance.

'I'm fine,' Gavroche insisted, holding up his hands in what was probably meant to be a placating gesture. As his palms were cut and bleeding, it had the opposite effect.

'We told you to wait outside,' Enjolras frowned, and at the same time Combeferre said, 'What happened?'

Grantaire's heart sank.

'That guy,' said Gavroche, pointing. 'The dude in distress you were so anxious to rescue. Shoved me.'

'You did what?' Éponine glanced up at Grantaire, fresh hostility in her eyes.

'I thought he was a zombie,' he said defensively. 'He grabbed me.'

'I was getting you out of there,' said Gavroche. 'You were standing still like an idiot. Number one way to get yourself killed.'

Half a dozen cutting retorts sprang to Grantaire's mind, but he remembered in time that he was talking to a kid and bit them back. 'Is he all right?'

'Stop staring y'all,' Gavroche said, in an appalling Southern accent. 'Dude's an arsehole and I'm fine.'

'Joly?' Éponine addressed another member of the group.

'Looks like a sprained ankle,' Joly shrugged. 'Should be OK.'

Grantaire exhaled in relief. He hadn't been keen to add "physically assaults children" to his CV. Assuming he'd ever have to write a CV again.

'We better go,' said Courfeyrac, glancing around. 'Another mob will be along in a minute, you know what they're like.'

'We can't go back to the station,' Combeferre said. 'Any of you guys know a place?'

'Ask him,'' said Éponine, jerking her head towards Grantaire. 'He got us into this mess.'

'Where are you based?' Enjolras asked. Up close, his eyes were a vivid blue.

'Uh,' said Grantaire intelligently. When that answer did not prove satisfactory, he added, 'It's a flat. Too small for,' he did a quick count, 'thirteen people.'

'Fourteen,' Éponine corrected. 'Azelma's waiting outside.' She glared pointedly at Gavroche, who shrugged.

'So, what?' Courfeyrac was looking at Enjolras in an expectant way. 'The station's not an option, and where else is gonna be big enough? 'Cause I love you guys, but there is no way I'm sharing one house with you.'

Joly spoke up. 'We passed a school a little while ago. Something Park?'

'Corinth Park,' Courfeyrac offered. 'I think it was a sixth form.'

'Screw it, then,' said Éponine. 'I am not going back to college.'

'Hold on,' someone else interjected. With a start, Grantaire recognised Feuilly. He looked more or less like he'd done in primary school, only bigger. He'd filled out a bit too, grown into his tall frame. Only his hair was different. Before, it had always been buzzed short, and now it was a fully-fledged afro.

He was frowning, as though trying to remember something. 'Grantaire, you went to Corinth Park, didn't you?'

Any liking Grantaire had felt towards him fizzled out in that moment. 'Yeah,' he said slowly. 'Went, past tense. As in, not planning on returning any time soon. How d'you even know?'

'Facebook,' Feuilly muttered. 'I was going through my friends; deleting people I didn't know anymore. I sort of came across your profile.'

And you couldn't delete me without looking? Grantaire thought. 'Oh.' 

'What's it like?' Enjolras asked, steering the conversation back to the point in hand. 'The college. Would it make a good stronghold?'

'Maybe?' Grantaire shrugged. 'Depends whether the power's still on, what kind of shape it's in, you know?'

'Then you can take us there,' said Enjolras. 'Show us around, the fire exits and weak points.'

'It's not that complicated,' Grantaire backtracked. 'Pretty standard school layout. I've already said I don't wanna join your little team, so…'

'You owe us,' said Éponine. 'We saved your arse. Plus you hurt my brother.'

Grantaire sighed. He wasn't getting out of this one. 'All right. I'll give you the Grand Tour.'

They seemed satisfied. As he followed them out of the shop, he reflected that it was funny that for a Gryffindor, he was very attached to the path of least resistance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'It certainly has potential,' said Combeferre, as they climbed another staircase up to the higher floors. 'I'm sure the size of those windows violate multiple health codes. On the other hand, they should be easy to defend.'
> 
> 'Probably what the architects were shooting for,' said Grantaire, and wished he hadn't. They'd half forgotten him in his role as Tour Guide, and now he was the centre of attention. Hurriedly, he continued, 'They might've thought, "education's so mainstream, why not design a place to serve as a fort in case a mysterious virus turns everyone you know into a brains-eating junkie?"'

Halfway to Corinth Park, Grantaire realised why Enjolras's name was so familiar. He stopped dead, mentally running through a list of appropriate swear words, but as somehow he'd been stuck escorting Éponine's little sister he wasn't able to use any of them. Azelma was around eight or nine, a quiet, shy little girl who seemed the polar opposite of her confident siblings. Éponine and Combeferre were carrying Gavroche between them, and so the kid had looked around the group and attached herself to Grantaire.

He didn't mind especially. He was supposed to be leading the group, but somewhere along the way Enjolras and Combeferre had taken over, and he'd let them.

And speaking of Enjolras… now Grantaire was 85% sure they'd gone to the same nursery. It had been a long time ago, the memory was pretty hazy. Still, if he really tried he could remember having a crush on a kid with a weird name and golden hair bright enough to light up a room. That had to be Enjolras.

The revelation wasn't the most comforting. Was Grantaire going to have some weird childhood connection with everybody he met? He hoped not, for their sake.

The rest of the group had settled into twos and threes, talking together and keeping a lookout as they walked. Grantaire did his best to send out Leave Me Alone vibes, though as he had Azelma tagging along with him it probably wasn't very convincing. Sure enough, Courfeyrac soon materialized and fell in step with him.

'So what's the deal with you?' Courfeyrac asked, his voice deliberately conversational. Coming from anyone else, Grantaire suspected it would sound creepy. Courfeyrac was bubbly enough to get away with it. 'Lone Wolf type, believes alliances are pointless, sentiment gets you killed, that sort of thing?'

'Uh, yeah?' said Grantaire. 'More that I don't see the point of lugging about dead weight.'

'Good thing we do,' said Courfeyrac cheerfully. 'Enjolras is very big on rescuing civilians. It's our motto or something. Though with you I think he's because he thought you were cute.'

Grantaire tripped over a curb.

'Look, there's the college,' Courfeyrac added. 'Grim place, isn't it?'

"Grim" summarized Corinth Park quite well in Grantaire's opinion. It was composed of two parallel buildings of the cinderblock variety, oblong in shape with five floors each. In an attempt to make the outward appearance more appealing, some misguided soul had painted the walls pond scum green.

'Behold, my alma-mater,' he muttered, just loud enough for Courfeyrac to hear. 'Home to slackers and stoners alike.'

Enjolras was inspecting the gates. 'These look good,' he said, as Grantaire approached, though he seemed to be talking to Combeferre. 'Reinforce them with something.'

'Break up a bench?' Courfeyrac suggested, gesturing towards one of the lonely picnic tables just outside the school. 'Unless you want to preserve the antiquity.'

Enjolras was nodding distractedly. 'Yeah. Let's see the inside.' And then, to Grantaire, 'Which building do you know better?'

'The one on the right is for science shit and the one on the left is for writing shit,' Grantaire recited. 'You know, history, art, history of art, that kind of thing.'

'So what did you do?' Combeferre asked.

'You kidding? Think I seem the type of person who can do maths? Nah, I'm an art guy.' He could see they found his self-deprecation irritating, though they followed without further comment.

After a quick inspection of the locks, Grantaire concluded that nobody had been there since the school had closed. The epidemic had begun during the February half term, so nobody had been in the college at the time. It even made sense that it hadn't been smashed up, Grantaire thought. People only trashed places they liked.

He managed to get them in without breaking anything serious. Enjolras was hovering at his elbow, an unspoken offer of help hanging in the air. Grantaire couldn't look the guy in the face without recalling nursery, so he avoided looking altogether. He wondered if Enjolras had made the connection. Probably not.

'Huh,' said Courfeyrac, as they filed through the reception and into the assembly hall. 'It's… well.'

'If you mean fucking depressing, then I agree with you,' said Éponine flatly. 'This place is as bad as the sixth form I went to.'

Dimly, Grantaire registered that he liked Éponine a little more. From the way some of the group were acting - Courfeyrac, Enjolras and Combeferre to name a few - it was clear they were unfamiliar with what the inside of a state school looked like.

'You and Gavroche should stay here,' Joly said, breaking the tension. 'There's no sense in carrying him around when we're only looking at the place. And Azelma looks tired.'

Éponine shrugged. 'Free country. Or it was.'

Gavroche complained loudly about being left behind, but as he could hardly walk on his own he wasn't given much choice in the matter. Cosette offered to stay too, which Éponine didn't look happy about.

Grantaire led the others up the stairs and along corridors, pointing out features with little enthusiasm. It had been almost nine months since he'd formally left Corinth Park, though it didn't feel like that long. Barely anything had changed. Lockers were still covered in graffiti, cheerless posters advertising clubs adorned every noticeboard and the library was as chaotic as ever.

'It certainly has potential,' said Combeferre, as they climbed another staircase up to the higher floors. 'I'm sure the size of those windows violate multiple health codes. On the other hand, they should be easy to defend.'

'Probably what the architects were shooting for,' said Grantaire, and wished he hadn't. They'd half forgotten him in his role as Tour Guide, and now he was the centre of attention. Hurriedly, he continued, 'They might've thought, "education's so mainstream, why not design a place to serve as a fort in case a mysterious virus turns everyone you know into a brains-eating junkie?"'

To his relief, Courfeyrac and Joly both laughed, and some of the others seemed sufficiently amused.

The tour concluded on the fifth floor, by a tall window. Someone on the design team - maybe the green paint lunatic - had thought it sensible to put in a full-length window, where on the other floors there was a tiny one. It might have been to inspire the artists or tempt them to suicide. Looking down through it, Grantaire thought each was equally likely.

This had been his favourite spot to sit and draw, back when he'd actually attended Corinth Park. He hadn't always had the opportunity to; everyone else coveted it as well. Sometimes he'd skip class and sit here, sketching a horse or a dragon or trying to replicate the water droplets on the glass. It was extremely aggravating to his teachers to have a student who would miss art lessons so he could draw by himself. Grantaire did not miss those conversations.

*

Éponine sat in a plastic chair, cleaning her penknife with the hem of her shirt. Next to her, Gavroche had recovered his spirits and was singing tunelessly under his breath. It was comfortingly familiar - Gavroche liked singing at every occasion - though Cosette's presence made Éponine uneasy.

She and Cosette were as different as sunshine and drizzle. Chalk and cheese. Enjolras and Tories. There was no shortage of appropriate metaphors.

They'd gone to the same sixth form, even had the same AS English class. Éponine had inadvertently hooked up Cosette with her current boyfriend, something she was having a great deal of trouble with. Marius and Éponine had been best friends in secondary school, and somehow she'd accidentally introduced him to Cosette. The two had taken to each other immediately. Éponine wouldn't have minded if it weren't for her big fucking crush on Marius.

Marius was the reason Éponine was part of the group to start with. He'd come to find her when the epidemic had started. She was thrilled for a whole five seconds before she realised he was frantic because he couldn't get hold of Cosette. He'd tracked her down eventually, with Éponine's grudging assistance.

'Are you all right?' Cosette asked, back in the present. Éponine swallowed a hostile response and said, 'Yeah. You?'

'I'm fine. What do you think of the college?'

'It's a shithole. Might work. Don't know.'

The other girl smiled. 'Hopefully zombies won't think it worth attacking. They don't usually want to expend that much energy unless they're really bored.'

'Mm.'

There was a pause. Cosette seemed at a loss for what to say, and Éponine wasn't in the mood to help her out. God, it would be so much easier if they could just openly hate each other. Irritatingly, that didn't seem possible. Marius would be upset if they didn't get along, and Éponine cared about his feelings far more than was healthy.

It wasn't even like Cosette was easy to hate, though that wasn't to say Éponine hadn't tried. At college, Cosette had been everything she detested. Fishtail braids, flower crowns and hipster coffee were just a few of Cosette's favourite things. When she and Marius had started dating, Éponine had done everything in her power to break the two up. Hinted to Marius that Cosette wasn't committed, constantly mentioning to Cosette how close Éponine and Marius were in an attempt to make her jealous. It seemed dumb now, and none of it had worked. The Dream Couple were still dating, and both halves had been trying to ingratiate themselves with Éponine. First, an unbearably cute speech from Marius about how good a friend she was and how he could never thank her enough for introducing him to Cosette. That had been possibly the worst ten minutes of Éponine's life.

And now Cosette, trying to be friends. Being kind, not to gloat about her victory but just because she was that nice. It was disgusting.

'How's your ankle feeling?' Cosette asked Gavroche. Éponine clenched her jaw and looked away.

'I don't know if I'll ever walk again,' Gavroche declared solemnly. 'Next time zombies attack, I'll be the first to fall. Enjolras was off his head, inviting that maniac to join us.'

'I'm sure he's fine,' said Cosette, though she did look a little worried. 'It was just an accident.'

Gavroche snorted. 'Yeah, yeah. If it was Azelma who got hurt, you guys would shred him.'

'That's enough,' Éponine snapped, sick of her brother's whining and Cosette's concerned face. She didn't have the energy to hate Cosette right now. It was so tiring and pointless and no matter how hard she tried it would never change how Marius felt. 'That maniac is providing us with a place to stay.'

Cosette chewed her lip. 'He does seem a little… aggressive.'

Seriously? Éponine made a mental note to introduce Cosette to Montparnasse if she ever got the chance.

When Gavroche spoke, his voice was loud enough to carry in the huge hall. 'If he kills us, I'm going to say, "I told you so."'

*

'It certainly looks promising,' said Enjolras to the assembled students, back in the hall. 'We'd have to put up barricades, of course. It will take longer to set up and more effort to maintain than the station. On the other hand it will be more secure, and its size will afford us some privacy.'

'I vote yes to the place with more than one bathroom,' Joly piped up.

'We'll stay here for tonight, at least,' Combeferre added. 'It's getting late. We can put minor defences in place, to be reinforced tomorrow. All in favour of staying here?'

Of course they voted democratically, Grantaire thought, watching the hands fly up. Joly's was the first, then Enjolras's, quickly followed by everyone else. They probably recycled their rubbish and put corpses on a compost pile. How on earth had he landed with a group of people who reeked of good intentions several miles off?

Éponine was the last to vote. She watched how the tide was turning, sighed and raised her own hand into the air. 'It's better than living in a supermarket.'

'Good,' Enjolras seemed satisfied. 'That's settled, then. If we could allocate tasks, now would be a good time to secure the entrances.'

Their efficiency was quite alarming. Grantaire had planned on escaping Corinth Park at the earliest possible opportunity. Instead he found himself roped into escorting Gavroche, Éponine and Joly to the nurse's office. He wasn't sure what they were hoping to find. Paracetamol, maybe. If there was any left.

Joly did surprisingly well, unearthing a couple of ice packs and some clean towels. 'Are you a doctor, or something?' Grantaire couldn't help saying, as Joly instructed a grudging Gavroche to keep his foot elevated.

'I wanted to be,' Joly replied, a little too casually, 'Did a term at medical school. This,' he gestured, 'is from a first aid course.'

'Oh.'

'Keep ice on the ankle until it stops hurting,' Joly instructed Éponine, wrapping the ice pack in question in a towel. 'I should probably go and build barricades, but I'll be back to check on it in a bit.'

'Thanks,' she muttered.

'You're welcome.'

Now seemed as good a time as any to escape. Rising from where he'd been leaning against a counter, Grantaire made to follow Joly. He had almost made it to the door when Éponine called him back.

'You going?'

He paused. 'Yeah. It's getting late.'

'Huh,' she said, making Gavroche hold his own ice pack and darting forward out of his earshot. 'Warm and welcoming's not really my thing, but are you sure you don't want to stick around? Depressing angle aside, this place does look secure.'

'I'm sure it is.' He'd stopped walking. Joly was disappearing down the corridor. 'I don't like groups.'

'I don't either. As a rule they're noisy and disorganized. I have to stay with this one, for the kids. If I didn't have them, well, I don't know. I'm just saying. There are worse people to fall in with, and this way you get a lot more sleep.' Éponine wasn't sure what she was doing, only that it might irritate Cosette to have such an 'aggressive' character around. Considering this was the same girl who felt comfortable with Bahorel, she was practically begging Éponine to annoy her.

Grantaire looked across the office, to the tiny window. Dusk was falling. If he wanted to get back to his flat in one piece, he'd have to start walking now.

'Thanks for the pep talk,' he told Éponine. 'I'm still gonna leave.'

'Fair enough.'

He headed out into the corridor, intending on avoiding the others until he realised he'd left his bag in the hall. Fuck. He doubled-back, hoping not to run into anyone.

When he reached it, the hall was emptier than he could have hoped for. Only Enjolras remained, flicking through a ledger with his back to the door.

Grantaire tried unsuccessfully to creep in without being noticed. He was halfway to his backpack when he tripped over a loose shoelace and collided painfully with a chair. At the loud clatter, Enjolras's body tensed and his head snapped round.

'It's just me,' said Grantaire unnecessarily.

'Éponine send you?' Enjolras started to walk over. He was still wearing his red jacket, and Grantaire was definitely not admiring how nicely it defined his shoulders. 'Joly said Gavroche was fine for the time being…'

'He is,' Grantaire said quickly. 'I left my backpack here.'

'Oh, are you going?' Enjolras was looking at him intently; though his tone was careless, almost dismissive He evidently hadn't expected Grantaire to hang around once the tour was done with.

Even though he didn't want to hang around, Grantaire felt oddly disappointed. He opened his mouth to confirm his departure, but for some reason what he said instead was, 'Nope, just checking my Tamagotchi.'

'So you're staying?'

'For a bit,' Grantaire said, overtly casual. 'Thought I'd give the group thing a go. You all right with that, oh Noble One?'

Enjolras was too surprised to notice the jibe. It was worth signing up for an apocalypse with the Good Intentions Mob just for the look on his face. 'That's good,' he said eventually. 'Um, Joly and Bossuet are working on the gates…'

'Got it.' Grantaire started backing away.

'What about your Tamagotchi?' Enjolras nodded at the backpack.

'I'll throw it a funeral.' Grantaire was mercifully close to the door now. 'Do you know anywhere that sells flowers?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any non-Brits, 'Tories' is another name for the Conservative Party http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Conservative_Party_(UK)
> 
> "AS" when in reference to a class means the first year of sixth form college, (you do two), when the characters would have been sixteen - turning - seventeen. 
> 
> Also I've realised I'm slightly modelling Gavroche on my little brother. Whoops.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'You'll be patrolling alone,' Courfeyrac continued. 'Same shift as Feuilly. Enjolras is on from 2.30 - he'll wake you. He's not a morning person either, so you might want to get up the first time he asks you.'
> 
> Grantaire nodded absently. In his head a vivid picture was forming, of Enjolras furiously wrenching away his blankets in an attempt to get him up. In his vision, he was sleeping in just his boxers.

Bossuet turned out to be Joly's boyfriend, a mild-mannered Hispanic guy with the most impressive beard Grantaire had ever seen. It also happened to be the first thing he noticed, because instead of pulling the bench into pieces they were sitting atop it, Joly attempting to braid strands of said beard. They both jumped when they saw Grantaire.

'Am I in the wrong place for gate building?' he said. 'Because I should tell you now, I can't plait for shit.'

'We're waiting for Bahorel,' Bossuet explained, patting the space next to him in invitation. 'He's supposed to be helping with the breaking part, but he's taking ages.'

'The benches are, like, cemented together,' said Joly. 'It's as if they're trying to thwart us. Was bench mutilation a common thing in your day?'

'Probably.' Grantaire hovered uncertainly for a moment, before climbing up to join them. 'Or I think one might have collapsed. After people were sitting on it.'

'Do you actually need me or did you just want the axe?' Bahorel's voice floated over from across the yard. Joly jumped again, though it was for comedic value more than anything else. When nobody answered immediately, Bahorel wandered over carrying a hatchet of respectable size.

'The axe will do,' Bossuet assured him.

With a nod to Grantaire and Joly, Bahorel dumped the axe on the table and returned from whence he came.

'We've pulled benches apart before,' Joly told Grantaire, as they regretfully climbed off the makeshift seat. 'There was one, it had a little metal plaque with someone's name on it. A remembrance type thing.'

'Someone Myriel,' Bossuet remembered. 'Combeferre got all conflicted about letting us use it to block up a bathroom window. Said it would be disrespectful.'

'Desecrating a memorial so we can shit in safety? That's the highest respect. Anyway, we pried off the plaque, stuck it somewhere else and used the bench anyway.'

Grantaire laughed. Out of everyone he'd met so far, these two were the easiest to be around. Although maybe that was because he hadn't caused them any injury and neither were staring at him with astonishingly blue eyes.

'Who wants to go first?' Bossuet picked the hatchet up off the table and weighed it in one hand. 'Grantaire? It's your school.'

'Was,' Grantaire corrected, though he still took it.

'Go for the joints,' Joly advised him. 'We want as intact pieces as possible.'

Nodding, Grantaire raised the axe. He had a nasty suspicion that this was going to be a lot harder than it looked. _Titanic_ had been among the romance films in the flatowner's collection, and when watching it he'd felt rather contemptuous of Rose's axe-cutting ability. Now all of a sudden he was feeling a lot more sympathetic to her.

He brought it down as hard as he could. The axe bit into the bench a couple of inches off where he'd aimed, the force of the impact sending shock waves up his arm. The plank split halfway with a very satisfying c _rack_.

'Wanton destruction of school property with no fear of retribution,' said Joly, in an observational tone of voice. 'To be filed under: Unexpected Joys An Apocalypse Can Bring.'

 

The total dismemberment of the bench took longer than anticipated. They each took turns with the axe, splitting the beams apart and then into manageable pieces.

'What's up with Éponine?' Grantaire asked, at one point. 'She look after those kids by herself?'

Neither of his companions answered for a moment. Then Bossuet began, hesitantly. 'It's not something she ever talks about, but. We get the idea she has a shitty home life. And by shitty I mean fucked up on a colossal scale. I'm surprised she hasn't skinned you alive for hurting Gavroche.'

'Probably because it was _Gavroche_ ,' interjected Joly. 'Boy's indestructible. If you'd hurt Azelma, you'd already be dead.'

'She didn't seem too mad,' said Grantaire. 'And she kind of encouraged me to stay. Should I be worried about being murdered in my sleep?'

Bossuet shook his head. 'Though, I have to ask - was it in a flirty way, or in an Us Outcasts Must Stick Together way? Because without being unduly judgemental, she really needs to like someone who isn't Marius.'

'Sorry to disappoint, I think it was the outcast one.' Grantaire heaved a beam into place. At one point during their labours Bahorel had returned with some garden twine, and now they were in the process of lashing the timber in between the metal bars of the gate. 

It turned out to be a lot trickier than they'd thought.  By the time Bossuet tied off the last knot and experimentally slammed his palm against the gate, night had fallen and they were working by torchlight. Any warmth in the air had disappeared with the sun. Grantaire's hands were numb from tying string and his usually pallid cheeks were red with cold.

'Couldn't we have a zombie invasion in summer?' Joly grumbled as they trooped inside, shivering.

'What if it got really hot, though?' Bossuet pointed out. 'You'd drown in your own sweat every time you had to run away.'

'Have you ever been in Britain in July?' said Grantaire. 'You'd have to be doing a _lot_ of exercise to sweat.' 

'There was a heatwave last summer,' insisted Bossuet. 'No, wait, it was two summers ago.'

'What was?' They had entered the assembly hall in time for Cosette to overhear the last comment.

Joly prepared to explain, but at that moment Combeferre began to speak and he fell silent. For a group so determinedly democratic, it had pretty clear leaders.

Combeferre began by running through the list of progress already made, occasionally calling on people to check he was right. Grantaire was glad to hear there had been sorting of sleeping arrangements, though his enthusiasm vanished when he heard they'd all be sharing the same room.

'It's only for tonight,' Combeferre said quickly, over the rising tide of objections. 'It will be much easier to guard if we know where everyone is. Once we have everything else sorted out, you can pick any classroom for yourself.'

'Plus the common room is already full of sofas,' Courfeyrac added. 'If we sleep in shifts, there will be enough to go round.'

Grantaire remembered Corinth Park's sofas - lumpy, sticky things that always smelled bad. He couldn't imagine how their appeal could have increased, but he'd still take them over the carpet.

The common room was on the ground floor. Joly and Bossuet had wandered off, so Grantaire decided to inspect it. He was pleasantly surprised. Six or seven sofas were arranged against the wall, while any surplus cushions and blankets were assorted to make extra beds on the floor. A few personal belongings were scattered here and there. Sleeping bags, the odd pillow, and beside one bed a tattered and naked Barbie.

Grantaire wandered around, looking at the pictures on the walls. Corinth Park's sporting facilities sucked, yet for some reason they had a basketball team. As far as he knew, they'd never won anything.

He was gazing at one of the photos when Courfeyrac dropped by, handing out beds and watches. Grantaire was assigned Sofa 4 and a watch starting at half past five.

'OK,' he said, upon receiving the news. 'Just don't expect me to be capable of human interaction that early.'

'You'll be patrolling alone,' Courfeyrac continued. 'Same shift as Feuilly. Enjolras is on from 2.30 - he'll wake you. He's not a morning person either, so you might want to get up the first time he asks you.'

Grantaire nodded absently. In his head a vivid picture was forming, of Enjolras furiously wrenching away his blankets in an attempt to get him up. In his vision, he was sleeping in just his boxers.

Heartily relieved Courfeyrac couldn't perform Legilimency, Grantaire hurried away. Standing next to his assigned sofa was one of the few people he had yet to become acquainted with.

'Hey,' the guy said. At least, Grantaire thought they were a guy. Up close, it was difficult to tell. They had a fine-boned face, black hair that fell past their ears and a complexion that suggested Native American heritage. Grantaire surreptitiously scanned their figure, hoping for clues, but they were so skinny and their clothes so shapeless it was impossible to tell.

'Hi,' Grantaire mumbled. Now he was actually faced with the prospect of sleep he found he was exhausted.

'Don't think we've been introduced,' the person said. Their voice had an accent that spoke of the States. 'I'm Jean Prouvaire, or Jehan.'

'Grantaire,' he said.

'I know,' Jehan said. 'Glorified Tour Guide, remember? It can't have been so traumatic that you've forgotten it already.'

'Oh, yeah.' Grantaire sat down on his sofa, and began to go through his backpack. People had been wandering around eating whatever, so it was probably safe to dig out one of his snacks. Most of the food he'd got needed cooking, but he found some squashed wholemeal burger buns encased in plastic wrapping. They weren't as stale as expected, or perhaps he was just too hungry to notice.

'I forgot, you were at Sainsbury's,' Jehan was watching him eat a little too hungrily. 'We normally have organised food rationing. Everyone's too tired to sort it out today.'

Grantaire hesitated, and then offered them a roll. He hated sharing food; especially when it was so scarce, but they looked so hungry he forced himself to be charitable.

'Thanks,' Jehan accepted the roll eagerly and devoured it with vigour. 'I like how food always tastes better when you're hungry.'

Other people had started to trickle into the room, most of them clutching something to eat. Éponine was shepherding Azelma and supporting Gavroche at the same time. Azelma picked up the grubby Barbie and held it to her chest.

Just behind them, Cosette came in holding hands with a good-looking Romanian boy. They settled on adjoining sofas at the far end of the room. Grantaire noticed Éponine scowling in their general direction.

'When's your watch?' Jehan asked, recapturing Grantaire's attention.

'Five thirty. With Feuilly, I think.'

They made a sympathetic noise. 'I'm on 7.30 till 9. It's the shortest one.'

'Who with?' Grantaire stuffed his backpack down in the gap between sofas and climbed onto his makeshift bed.

'Marius,' said Jehan, nodding at the boy holding hands with Cosette.

'Lights out in five,' Combeferre called. He was standing in the doorway, about to embark on the first watch with Bahorel.

Grantaire settled himself awkwardly on the sofa, trying to get used to sleeping without a blanket. He'd done it before, but living in the flat had made him complacent so that now he felt that he was missing something. To his relief, he was so tired that sleep came quickly. The last thought to register in his befuddled brain was that despite everything, he felt weirdly secure in his old college.

 

Courfeyrac wasn't kidding when he said Enjolras isn't a morning person. Grantaire found himself being brutally shaken awake at twenty past five, repeated ' _wake up'_ s hissed in his ear.

When he opened his eyes, Enjolras's face was alarmingly close to his own. 'You don't have to kiss me awake,' was the first thing Grantaire said. For some reason he thought it would be funny, only his voice sounded breathy and weird. Enjolras jerked away as fast as if he'd been stung.

'Feuilly's waiting for you,' he said abruptly, looking away. 

Grantaire got up quickly, dusting himself off. He didn't realise why Enjolras was hanging around until the other guy sat down on the edge of the sofa.

Of course, he was going to sleep here. The other sofas were taken. Morbidly embarrassed, Grantaire hurried to the door.

Feuilly was indeed waiting for him. After a whispered discussion, they split up and began their respective patrols. Grantaire's beat took him away from the main entrance, past the fire escape and through the library.

It felt very strange to be walking around his old school in the middle of the night. Every time he turned a corner he half expected to see a decaying face, or feel a rotting hand on his shoulder. Now and again he thought he heard footsteps, which was ridiculous because Feuilly was at the other end of the building. More than once, he wished he could turn off his hyperactive imagination.

It got better after a while. By his third walk around, he no longer saw zombies in every shadow. Still, he hadn't been this jumpy since the epidemic had first begun. Perhaps it was the added weight of being responsible for other people that was making him this way. 

Or, maybe he was just walking alone in a dark and spooky building containing less-than-fond memories. His school experience hadn't been the absolute worst, but it had still been far from idyllic. Out of the list of buildings he'd like to spend an apocalypse in, Corinth Park was right at the bottom.

He saw Feuilly three times during their two-hour shift. Their paths intersected in a couple of places, and now and again he'd see the beam of the second torch. The extra light made Grantaire jump, though it was nice to see somebody else who was awake.

At seven twenty-five they returned to the common room. Feuilly woke Marius and Grantaire crossed the room to rouse Jehan. On Sofa 4, Enjolras was curled up, dead to the world.

'It's your turn,' Grantaire whispered to Jehan, handing them the torch. 'It's easier when you're up.'

Groggily, Jehan accepted the torch and got up. Marius was gazing, spellbound, at a sleeping Cosette until Feuilly elbowed him.

Grantaire sat down on Jehan's couch. It was his now. Nobody was paying attention to him, so he sneaked a glance over at sleeping Enjolras. He looked nice when he was asleep, his delicate features softened into a relaxed pose. It was like watching a volcano become dormant after a tiring day of fire and brimstone.

Grantaire didn't know how long he might have spent, frozen in place, if Jehan and Marius hadn't left, taking the light with them.

 

Éponine heard Marius go, and thought about following him. She'd been awake for ages - lying uncomfortably on her back on the floor, with Azelma curled up close beside her. Exhausted, she'd crashed out early the previous evening, and now she couldn't get back to sleep no matter how hard she tried.

Marius would probably be grateful for the company, she thought. She could imagine it so clearly, the two of them strolling through the school. They'd have a chance to talk, _really_ talk, for the first time in ages. Her stupid crush aside, they hadn't had the chance to just be friends for a while. First Cosette had been in the way, and then they'd been fighting for their lives every five minutes. This was a chance to reclaim what she was missing, however temporarily.

Éponine smiled to herself, glad that the darkness hid her face. She could see it in her mind, could almost hear his laugh. It wasn't even unattainable. All she had to do was get up quietly, and she was an expert at sneaking.

Next to her, Azelma stirred and let out a small noise in her sleep. Éponine's good mood vanished as her obligations came crashing back. What if Azelma woke and found her gone? Her sister knew she didn't have watch duty tonight, and it would panic her to wake up alone.

Sighing inwardly, Éponine tried to make herself more comfortable and resigned herself to her current position. Now they'd found a more secure hideout, perhaps she'd get a chance to talk to Marius another time. She told herself that repeatedly, as if determined repetition could make it true. At least by staying where she was, she was getting all the sister points.

 

Everybody got up at nine o'clock. Marius and Jehan reported a peaceful night, though when Cosette paid a visit to the full-length window she saw several zombies out in the street.

'They were ignoring the college,' she said over breakfast. It was a curious meal cobbled together from baked beans and processed cheese. Grantaire had surrendered his backpack to the kitchen department, aka Bahorel. They'd pushed together two tables in the lunch hall and were managing to hold a discussion of day plans and eat at the same time.

Combeferre looked worried. 'Heightened zombie activity in the area isn't good.'

'Is it heightened, necessarily?' said Courfeyrac. 'Do we know how busy it was before?'

'Given the condition of the surrounding streets, it's certainly not a hotspot,' Jehan cut in.

'Then we need a Plan B,' said Enjolras. 'So far, our strategy has been to build up defences and evacuate when it gets bad. That's only going to work so many times. We lost the station that way. If we're serious about this place, we'll have to fight to keep it.'

'Wow,' Grantaire couldn't resist saying. 'I had no idea people liked this college so much.'

Enjolras tensed momentarily, and then said, 'May I speak to you for a moment?'

It took Grantaire half a minute to realize _he_ was the one Enjolras had spoken to. He got up slowly from the table, trying to figure out how he'd caused offence. Maybe Enjolras had changed his mind, and wanted to revoke Grantaire's invitation to stay. He tried to ignore the acrobatics his stomach was doing. This was not going to go well. The last time he and Enjolras had had a private conversation, Grantaire had ended up suddenly revoking a hard-and-fast opinion. 

'What did I do?' he asked, as soon as they were out of earshot.

Enjolras blinked. Thanks to the boarding of the windows, there was very little light in the hall. A stray beam had managed to cast itself over his face, glancing off his fair eyelashes. 'You haven't done anything, as far as I know.'

Perhaps Grantaire's brain was working extra slowly today, because he still didn't know what was going on. 'What, then? Something tells me you're not interested in small talk…?'

Enjolras was growing steadily more irritated.  Frown lines were appearing on his forehead and his lips were slightly pursed. 'I wanted to speak to you,' he said, keeping his voice deliberately low, 'because I wanted to make sure you're OK with what we're doing to the school. This has to be weird for you, and I'm sorry we couldn't address it yesterday. I hope we haven't changed anything in a way that's uncomfortable?'

Grantaire stared at him. Fuck. Thiswas what Enjolras was worried about? That seeing his old college revamped as Survival HQ would _upset_ him?

He started laughing. 'Seriously, dude? You're, what, asking for my _permission?'_

'It's consideration of your feelings,' replied Enjolras, a little ruffled.

'You could turn this place into a nursery for all I care,' said Grantaire, and cursed himself. Why had he mentioned nurseries? 'Do you ask zombies if they mind getting their heads chopped off?'

Enjolras made no reply. He was looking down the hall, though he seemed more oblivious than distracted. Giving Grantaire one last sweeping glance, he started back to the table. He was halfway there when the canteen door banged open, with enough force to send it crashing against the wall.

From it emerged an unfamiliar band of people. They stumbled, and took a moment to take their bearings. At first, Grantaire thought they were other survivors, come to challenge the ownership of Corinth Park. Then he realised every one of the newcomers was dead.

Enjolras's posse reacted with remarkable speed. Only a couple were armed; they plunged straight forward to meet the attack while their fellows scrambled to find weapons. Grantaire fumbled for his machete and remembered he'd lost it at the video shop. His other knife was still in his backpack, over in the common room.

Cosette had sprung up and was sprinting to the other end of the dining hall where some of the building implements, including Bahorel's axe, were resting against the wall. Grantaire was about to follow her lead when he caught sight of Courfeyrac and Éponine.

Neither was armed, yet both had entered the fray, using physical strength in lieu of weaponry. As Grantaire watched, Éponine lifted a young male zombie into the air and forcibly twisted his emaciated neck until his head popped off.

Someone passed Grantaire a cricket bat and he ran forward to help. It was oddly exhilarating to be charging into battle fighting alongside this many people. The last couple of scrimmages he'd been in had turned out badly.

This wasn't like those times. The adrenaline pumping through him was born from mixed fear and excitement. Grantaire leapt over a prone body and slammed the bat into a zombie skull, sending the creature reeling.  A few feet away Bossuet and Joly were taking turns pummeling a zombie with what looked like metal railings, and Cosette was cutting a swath through the crowd with unbridled ferocity.

At the end of the hall, the doorway had finally cleared. Éponine ran out of the room with Combeferre on her heels, calling for Gavroche. Grantaire didn't have time to think about following; he was locked in combat with the corpse of an eleven-year-old girl. For her size, the girl was annoyingly quick. He dodged to the side and out of the corner of his eye saw Enjolras fighting a zombie while a second approached from the left.

Grantaire nearly issued a warning, but the little girl dived at him and he had to knock her away. When he looked back a few moments later, Enjolras had entirely disposed of the first zombie and had momentarily relaxed, completely unaware of the immediate threat.

Grantaire smashed the cricket bat into the little girl's head and started running. He wasn't fast enough. The zombie had taken Enjolras by surprise, jumping him from behind. Enjolras toppled, and across the room Courfeyrac let out a shout. Grantaire didn't stop to think. He barreled across the room, dropped the cricket bat and, grabbing hold of the zombie's shirt, yanked it away from Enjolras with all his strength.

Both he and the zombie went down, hard. Grantaire felt the wind leave his chest and for a moment he lay still, gasping for air. The zombie recovered much faster. Smiling hideously, it reached for him. Grantaire tried to move, but something had happened to his limbs and he still couldn't breathe.

Helplessly, he looked up in time to see the zombie forcefully decapitated by a knife wielding Enjolras.

'What,' he began flatly, fixing Grantaire with a heart-attack inducing stare, 'was that about?' 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I have given in to the stereotype of non-binary Jehan. What can I say, it's a trope I like.
> 
> I have also made the very stupid decision to start another fic at the same time as this one. It will probably be around 3k -7k words, so hopefully won't slow updates too much.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire drew number six. He was lucky; Enjolras was fourteen. By the time everyone else has made their claims, he was left with the smallest and stickiest sofa of all.  
> 'This is why you should date people with big sofas,' Joly informed him cheerfully. Everybody knew he and Bossuet were planning to push their beds together; they'd made it quite clear. 'And no, that wasn't a euphemism.'

'What?' Grantaire stared idiotically at his saviour. Enjolras's hands were shaking with adrenaline, his chest heaving with every breath. Around them, the battle was coming to a close. The zombies had had the advantage of surprise, the students that of numbers and speed.  Joly was pinning the last zombie to the wall with his metal bar while Cosette took hefty chunks out of it with the axe. Dazed as he was, Grantaire had to admire Cosette's transformation. She had gone from meek and mild to Viking warrior in less than five minutes. Marius was a lucky dude.

'Are you two OK?' Courfeyrac approached, concern written all over his face. He offered Grantaire a hand up and pulled him to his feet. Enjolras was still staring, an odd expression on his face. It was difficult to tell whether he was angry or just surprised.

'I'm fine,' Grantaire said, in answer to Courfeyrac's question.

'I still can't decide whether that was awesome or stupid,' said Courfeyrac, looking him up and down. 'Were you Steve Rogers in a past life or something?'

Grantaire didn't respond. He was staring back at Enjolras, as though accepting the challenge. 'Are _you_ all right?' he asked, slightly more aggressively than he'd intended.

Enjolras nodded slowly, and found his voice. 'Why d'you do that? I had everything under control.'

'Yeah, I really got that impression from the way the zombie nearly _bit_ you,' said Grantaire, not bothering to lower his voice. 

Courfeyrac made a move as though to step between them. 'Another time, gentlemen. If we may return to the problem in hand…'

Enjolras turned away without another word. Combeferre had reentered the hall carrying a plastic crossbow. 'Kids are fine,' he called, setting it down on the table. 'Didn't even know there were zombies in the building.'

'We should move them upstairs,' Enjolras had snapped back into leader mode. 'The sofas as well. We're too vulnerable sleeping here on the ground floor.'

'I recall a promise about private bedrooms,' Courfeyrac chimed in.

'Yes, yes, there's a lot to do,' Enjolras raised his voice to address everyone. 'First, damage control. Is anybody hurt?'

Aside from a few minor grazes, nobody was. Feuilly, Bahorel and Bossuet carried the zombie bodies outside. Nobody had any idea what to do with them, and so Grantaire's joke suggestion of, 'chuck 'em over the fence' was put into practice.

'What we really need,' said Joly thoughtfully, watching his boyfriend heave a corpse over the brick wall, 'is a catapult, like they had for sieges. What are the ones with weights? Trebuchets. Maybe we could build one of those.'

'Let's hope we won't need to,' said Enjolras drily. 'Did we find out how they got in?'

'Fire escape,' said Jehan. 'I checked. Wasn't properly blockaded. They must have got lucky and found a weak spot.'

'Who was in charge of that?' Courfeyrac asked. Combeferre's eyes drifted over to Cosette and Marius.

'Honestly,' Éponine harrumphed, sounding worryingly like Hermione Granger. 'Can we not put distracted couples in charge of important jobs?'

'Hey,' said Joly in mock offense. 'The gate is fine.'

'You had Grantaire chaperoning you,' she said.

Cosette looked mortified. 'Oh god, I'm so sorry,' she said, and Marius looked down at his feet.

'There's no point making a fuss now,' said Combeferre quickly, shooting Éponine a warning look. 'Nobody was seriously hurt and it can be rebuilt.' And then, as was his custom, he set about sorting people into groups. Éponine and Bahorel were put in charge of restoring the blockade over the fire escape, Joly was assigned babysitting duties and everyone else was commissioned to move all the sleeping stuff upstairs.

'Fifth floor for sleeping, fourth floor for daily goings-on,' Enjolras summarized.

'I think I saw I a staff kitchen up there,' Jehan offered. 'Nothing huge, but it had a kettle, running water, that kind of thing.'

They decided to move all the sofas upstairs, and then sort out individual bedrooms and draw lots to see who got which sofa. By 'they' that meant Enjolras and Combeferre suggested it and nobody had any objection.

Planning was the easy part. Nobody among them had ever carried a sofa upstairs before, and it proved to be surprisingly challenging. Courfeyrac and Combeferre went first, and on the first flight alone they nearly killed each other and left a sizeable dent in the wall.

Grantaire hoped that if he kept quiet, he wouldn't find a partner and could be elected cushion-carrier or something. It was possibly the first time ever that his tendency to be left partnerless was going to work to his favour. After a childhood riddled with disappointment after being chosen last for teams, he thought the universe owed him this much.

He hovered in a corner, not making eye contact when Combeferre and Courfeyrac paired up and picked the smallest sofa. Jehan and Feuilly followed. It was only when Bossuet teamed up with Marius and Cosette - 'to keep an eye on them' - that Grantaire started to panic. Only he and Enjolras remained.

Enjolras didn't look thrilled either. Despite his repeated insistence that he was fine, a purple lump had risen on his forehead, standing starkly out against his fair skin. He was ignoring it, but it had to hurt like hell.

'Shall we take this one?' he gestured to the nearest sofa. It was, Grantaire realised with a lurch in his stomach, the one both of them had slept on the night before.

'Yeah,' Grantaire managed. 'Why not?'

They picked up opposite ends and began backing into the corridor. Grantaire had laughed a great deal at Combeferre and Courfeyrac, but now he was in their shoes he didn't find it so funny. Enjolras had taken the front end, which meant he was effectively walking backwards. Every so often, Grantaire had to call out just to stop him colliding with something. On top of that, add the sofa's weight and its determination to obey the laws of gravity, and they were a walking disaster.

'If the apocalypse ever ends, I'm going to live in a bungalow,' Grantaire puffed, as they reached the second floor. The stairwells were the hardest part; they had to turn a full 180 degrees in a relatively small amount of space. Dents and scrapes on the wall indicated that their predecessors had been no more proficient. Grantaire wanted to shout, 'Pivot!' at regular intervals, but he was unsure whether Enjolras would get the reference.

'Sleeping on the fifth floor was a bad idea. I apologise,' Enjolras gasped, when they finally reached the top.

'You're forgiven,' said Courfeyrac. The others had gathered, waiting for them. 'But only because you're an attractive person and that lump on your forehead makes me want to cry.'

Enjolras frowned, and raised a hand to his temple. 'I think it looks worse than it is.'

'Don't worry, you're still pretty,' said Bossuet. 'Hey Grantaire, Feuilly had an idea.'

Wondering why he was being called upon in place of somebody more competent, Grantaire looked at Feuilly, who shrugged. 'Does the science building also have a common room? I thought as there aren't enough sofas to go round, it would be a good way to get more without leaving the school.'

'It should do,' said Grantaire. 'It is a building for maths people though, so they might all sit on hard stone benches next to drafty windows.'

Courfeyrac let out a bark of indignant laughter. 'I thought artists were the ones who made stupid sacrifices. Us mathematicians work best in warm rooms with lots of armchairs…'

'If we can get more beds, that would be great,' Enjolras interrupted. 'Maybe first we should choose rooms?'

'I'll fetch the others,' Bossuet offered, slipping past Grantaire and descending the stairs.

'There are easily enough rooms or one each, but if people want to share, that's fine too,' said Combeferre, with a glance at Cosette and Marius.

Grantaire knew exactly which room he wanted. It was down the end of the corridor, where he'd had art in his second year. Those rooms were small in size with tall windows, every wall laden with paintings done by former students. It was one of the few places that didn't hold as many shitty memories as the rest of the building. 

Hurriedly he excused himself and made his way down the corridor. People were starting to wander off and so nobody stopped him.

The room was as he'd remembered it with only two new paintings: a blurred landscape and a face with bulging, bloodshot eyes. He recognised his own work hanging above a radiator and went over to have a closer look at it. He thought it could be interesting to do another version of it now. All the paint was still in the cupboards, and aside from occasionally battling the undead it wasn't like he had many other commitments.

Grantaire started moving the tables to the side of the room, definitely not thinking about what it would be like to paint Enjolras. He could see it in his minds' eye, all blond curls and blue eyes burning brightly against a red background.

'Not bad.' Courfeyrac poked his head through the door, and extended a hand holding a piece of paper. 'In order to call dibs on a room, you have to do a name card and stick it to your door. Like when you're at a stables, and all the horses have little signs with their names on.'

Grantaire took the paper and turned it over. 'Got a pen?'

'I did, but Feuilly stole it. You're in a room full of paint, man, use your imagination.' And with that, Courfeyrac promptly withdrew.

He didn't use paint in the end, instead making the placard aggressively casual with a ballpoint found on top of a cabinet. With some masking tape from inside the cabinet, he stuck it to the outside of his door. He'd just finished when he heard voices from the room opposite and paused, curiously, to listen.

'I wasn't saying we should share in a _share_ way,' Courfeyrac's voice sounded panicked. 'I just meant we could have it alternating days.'

'That would be a lot of effort, it is just a room,' Combeferre's voice replied. 'Why don't we toss for it?'

There was a pause, then Courfeyrac's voice saying 'tails', and the sound of a coin hitting the ground. Another moment's silence, and then a 'damn', also from Courfeyrac.

'Sorry,' said Combeferre unapologetically.

The door started to open, and Grantaire ducked hastily back inside his room.

 

Out of all the injuries to get in a zombie apocalypse, a sprained ankle was one of the worst, Gavroche decided. Joly had reexamined the ankle in question and said it should be fine in a couple of days, though to Gavroche that was the same as being injured for the rest of his life.

Sitting out on Joly and Azelma's third game of I-Spy, he was trying unsuccessfully to make a pun about their current situation involving the phrase 'bored to death'.  Unsatisfied with his progress, he stretched yawned as obviously as he could. Joly was much less likely to enforce rest than Éponine, so Gavroche got to his feet, muttered about needing the toilet and awkwardly propelled himself towards the door. Joly glanced up, but didn't stop him.

Once outside in the corridor, Gavroche began to feel the satisfaction of independence. He limped through to the lunch hall, doing his best to ignore the pain in his ankle. Having only heard about the attack secondhand, he was curious to see what remained. Whenever they encountered a fight situation, Éponine was always forcing him to stay behind. If he were by himself, he would disobey her in a heartbeat, but with Azelma present he couldn't afford to do that. The Thénardier siblings had an unspoken agreement when it came to Azelma, and Gavroche wasn't planning on being the letdown any time soon.

The hall was disappointing. All the zombie bodies had been cleared away and there wasn't even any blood. The remains of breakfast were still on the tables. Gavroche picked up a foil-encased portion of _Laughing Cow_ cheese and ate it, with little regard for hygiene. Lying on the table next to an almost-empty bowl of baked beans was a plastic crossbow, loaded with what looked like knitting needles. Intrigued, Gavroche picked it up and fired experimentally at the opposite wall.

The effect was lethal. The metal needle pierced the plaster and kept going in until only half the metal needle was visible.

 _Nice,_ Gavroche thought, and made ready to fire again. This time the needle hit the far wall of the staircase and nearly impaled Bossuet, who had just emerged.

'Whoa!' Bossuet flinched violently. 'What are you doing?'

Suppressing a deeply ingrained desire to flee, Gavroche lowered the crossbow. 'Sorry,' he called, not sounding sorry in the slightest.

'Where are Joly and Azelma?' Bossuet demanded, crossing the hall and taking the weapon from the smaller boy.

'Staff room,' said Gavroche, a tinge of annoyance in his voice at having the bow confiscated. 'They'll have got to the sing-alongs by now.'

'Come on, then.' Bossuet started walking in the direction of the door.

'I'm an invalid, remember?' Gavroche shouted after him. 'You could carry me.'

'You got yourself here, you can get yourself back,' Bossuet called over his shoulder.

Cursing, Gavroche hobbled after him.

 

Feuilly's suggestion regarding the science block common room proved to be a good one. It was nearly identical, though Grantaire thought the pattern of stains on the carpet might be different.

He got to experience the joy of carrying a sofa upstairs for a second time, though he was paired with Éponine rather than Enjolras. She was better at it than he'd been - something about her suggested she had moved furniture often - but then again she wasn't nearly as nice to look at. That was less to do with her not being attractive (because she was, very) and a great deal to do with Grantaire's type having been narrowed down to involve blond hair and red leather jackets.

Éponine was almost chatty as they heaved the couch upstairs, possibly in a good mood because she'd found separate-yet-adjacent rooms for her and her brother, offering them both privacy but enabling her to keep an eye on him. At least that's what Grantaire assumed, she only mentioned it briefly and as a rule avoided the topic of her family.

He couldn't really blame her. With upper-middle-class, well-adjusted people like Courfeyrac skipping around, it was tempting to stick a band-aid over any Childhood Trauma and forget to mention it at any point in the foreseeable future.

Once all the sofas were on the fifth floor and Grantaire's lungs were about to collapse in on themselves, they settled the matter of ownership. Combeferre organised this by taking paper from a drawer, cutting it into squares and numbering them one to fourteen. The squares were then folded and tossed into a beanie, thoughtfully provided by Jehan.

Grantaire drew number six. He was lucky; Enjolras was fourteen. By the time everyone else has made their claims, he was left with the smallest and stickiest couch of all.

'This is why you should date people with big sofas,' Joly informed him cheerfully. Everybody knew he and Bossuet were planning to push their beds together; they'd made it quite clear. 'And no, that wasn't a euphemism.'

Interior decoration took up an alarming amount of the rest of the day. After several people had tested the fire escape blockade and declared their approval, everyone became oddly obsessed with organizing their rooms. It seemed that people were knocking on Grantaire's door every five minutes, asking for pens or masking tape or paper. Every time he had to point out that the entire floor was filled with art supplies, his was hardly the only room containing tape.

He had set up his things so that his bed was next to the window. The sofa he'd chosen was a medium-sized cotton-covered affair, not quite long enough for his whole body but big enough so that he didn't have to sleep in a fetal position. The extra chairs and tables he'd stashed in an empty classroom, save for one of each for his personal use.

Grantaire was in the midst of wondering whether he should get rid of some of the other students' paintings when an idea struck. His new room, like all the classrooms, had perfectly white walls. The paint he had was meant for canvas, but that didn't mean experimentation was completely off-limits.

He took down all the paintings except the one he'd done. It looked both lonely and conspicuous hanging there on its own, though by being the only one of its kind it was afforded certain status.

'Oh, are you getting rid of those?' Combeferre eyed the stack of pictures Grantaire had dumped in the hall. He hadn't known what else to do with them.

'Uh, yeah?' said Grantaire. 'Why, d'you want one?'

Combeferre shook his head. 'No, but Courfeyrac might. Hey, COURF!'

Courfeyrac did indeed want a painting, as did Cosette, Joly and Jehan. There was even brief haggling between Jehan and Cosette over a picture of a stag in a forest. Jehan won, although that might have been Cosette being too nice to beat them down.

Grantaire was a little taken aback both at the popularity of art and the general zeal that people had for decoration. He understood all too well about the joy of distractions, but wasn't sure why everyone was being such a dork about it.

 

As Jehan had predicted, dinner was a much more organised affair the second night. Feuilly and Bahorel cooked an interesting mixture of pasta, canned soup and tinned mackerel. ('At least it's not sardines.') Left to their own devices after dinner, Courfeyrac and Éponine found a TV in the staff room and were trying to tune into a news channel. Wandering in to see what they were up to, Jehan found an unopened packet of party rings and declared them suitably edible.

By some technological miracle, the TV team managed to tune into a channel showing constant reruns shows including but not limited to: _How I Met Your Mother_ , _Scrubs_ and _Friends._

Before long, everybody had packed into the staff room and were arguing over the ownership of swivel chairs. Grantaire didn't expect Enjolras to find entertainment in something as lowly as television programmes, yet there he was, sitting on the floor beside Feuilly's swivel chair and munching on a party ring. Though perhaps he was in it for the ranting, because every five minutes he would start on a tirade about how while Barney Stinson's character is presented as comedic, the harmful stereotypes about women and sex he perpetuates are never properly addressed or condemned by the show itself.

Every time he did this, Courfeyrac would make a hushing sound, often with an accompanying, 'We know.' Grantaire had never been quite so jealous of a platonic exchange before.

Halfway through an episode of _Scrubs_ , Éponine figured out how to change channels. There weren't many running; given that most of Britain was hiding from the undead. From the news station they found, it appeared that the BBC had relocated to the Orkney Islands, with just a few crews remaining in England.

'And given that so many of the public have taken survival into their own hands, what advice would you give to anyone trying to make it on their own?' a presenter asked, and the camera panned over to who she was talking to. At least half of the group let out a cry of disgust when the identity of her guest was revealed.

'Of course, you have to bear in mind that living solo is not people's only option, nor is it recommended,' Prime Minister Javert replied. 'Part of the reason the virus has been so hard to contain is that people have been preferring to stay in their own groups rather than turn to the government. Though,' he smiled condescendingly, 'such panic is understandable. Yet it must be overcome.'

'So that's why you're offering refugee camps, is that right?'

He nodded. As always, he was dressed in an impeccable suit with an awful tie, though light shadows under his eyes suggested he wasn't quite as composed as he'd like to be. 'We've set up a number of secure locations where anyone may seek refuge. Anyone needing help should call our hotline,' a number flashed at the bottom of the screen, 'and a squad will pick you up. Armoured vehicles will continue patrolling residential areas, searching for survivors?'

'Do you think these militarized camps are the answer?'

'I do,' said Javert. 'We can only hope to survive this terrible time through cooperation and unity. I do hope that any viewers currently on the run will be compelled to make their way to the nearest government camp. You will be safe and cared for, and we will be able to notify any relatives in other camps that you are alive. Thank you.'

Éponine turned the TV off and everybody started talking at once.

'Who is he kidding, _safe?'_

''On the run', like we're all criminals?'

'We're really supposed to believe the people who landed us here in the first place?'

'Why is this even an issue? Everybody knows Javert is scum.'

'All right!' Enjolras raised his voice to be heard. The chatter died away as people turned to look at him. 'Obviously, anyone has the freedom to act as they choose, even if that means following Javert. However, if anyone _is_ considering it, I would warn them to be very suspicious about Javert's offers.'

'No judging, but _is_ anyone interested,' Combeferre asked.

Marius tentatively raised his hand. He was the only one that did. When he realised, he withdrew it quickly.

'You are all free to change your minds,' Combeferre reminded them. He looked like he wanted to add something else, but at that moment Éponine switched the telly back on, and _Scrubs_ distracted them once more.

 

Grantaire retired early. A muscle was aching in his back; during his sudden exertion earlier he might have pulled something. The inside of his room was depressingly devoid of personal items. If he got the chance, it might be worth a quick trip back to the hotel to get some extra shirts. His was beginning to smell. He took it off, opened the window and hung it over the sill, hoping the fresh air might do it good. Being March, the breeze that swept in was bitingly cold.

Behind him, the door swung open. 'Hey, sorry to intrude, I got you some…' Enjolras's voice tailed off as he took in the sight of a shirtless Grantaire, shivering next to the window. '…Clothes,' he finished. 'Uh, Marius had some spare, and Cosette mentioned that as a newcomer you probably didn't have enough.' He offered a small folded pile, containing a T-shirt, jeans and socks.

'Thanks,' Grantaire accepted the stack and put it on the table. 'I always said, back in the day, that what Corinth Park really needed was a washing machine.'

Enjolras nodded distractedly. 'You have a tattoo,' he blurted out suddenly.

Grantaire had forgotten about the mark on his left shoulder blade. He craned his neck to get a look at it, and shrugged. 'What can I say? Some people got A Levels, I got this.'

'A hummingbird?' Enjolras didn't sound like he was judging, merely curious.

'I was drunk enough to not remember it. My friends said I told the girl to do 'whatever.'' Enjolras's awkward gaze was beginning to make him self-conscious, so he pulled on the T-shirt Marius had donated. It was a little too small and so it fit very snug.

'Thanks for bringing these,' said he said, nodding at the other clothes on his table.

Enjolras muttered a 'you're welcome'. It occurred to Grantaire that Marius could have dropped off the clothes himself. Though he'd never call himself a leader, that's what Enjolras was, and what type of leader put themselves on laundry duty?

Enjolras must have realised the direction Grantaire's mind was heading in, because he said suddenly and brusquely, 'There is something I want to talk to you about.'

'Is this the permission thing again? I already told you I don't give a shit.'

'No it wasn't, but I'll bear that in mind.' Enjolras had gone from bashful to businesslike so quickly Grantaire felt dizzy. 'I'm actually curious as to the thing you did earlier. When you, er, came to my aid.  I appreciate it,' he added hastily, 'but I'm not sure it was entirely necessary, and I'd rather nobody endangered themselves on my behalf.'

'Not _necessary_?' Grantaire couldn't believe his ears. 'That zombie would have made you its lunch. You didn't even notice it approach, how was I supposed to know you wanted to handle it yourself?'

'I didn't hear it,' snapped Enjolras. 'That doesn't mean I'm _incapable - '_

'Well, I'm sorry you're deaf,' Grantaire began, and in the same breath Enjolras responded, 'Good, because I am.'

A sudden silence fell. Grantaire wondered how he had survived this long with such inept social skills, and whether jumping from a fifth floor window would kill him or just break both his legs.

'Shit, man,' he said, realizing Enjolras wasn't likely to speak anytime soon. 'I shouldn't have - '

'It's OK,' Enjolras interrupted. 'You couldn't have known. It's only one ear, and I lost the hearing-aid, so…'

'Your left?' Grantaire guessed, and the other guy nodded.

'Car accident when I was ten. Damaged my ear and got glass embedded in the side of my head. My hair hides the scars.'

'Shit,' Grantaire repeated. 'I wouldn't have said that if…'

'I know.'

'And look,' he added. 'I get why you'd not want to be given special treatment or anything - I wouldn't either - but this is, you know, your life we're talking about. Maybe having someone to watch your back wouldn't be such a bad idea.'

'What, are you volunteering?' Enjolras asked, so acidly that Grantaire flinched. 'I told you, I'm not interested in endangering other people. I can handle it, OK?'

He left the room without another word. Standing by himself with a pile of somebody else's clothes, Grantaire wondered how he'd managed to fuck up a laundry exchange so fantastically. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan nodded. 'Trust me. You do not want to hear some of Marius's rhymes. The metre is even worse. It's like he's trying to imitate Emily Dickinson, only he's got no idea what he's doing.'
> 
> 'I take it you've read his poetry?' Grantaire slowed his step, enabling the others to pull even further ahead.
> 
> 'Oh yes. Made the mistake of rephrasing a sentence in iambic pentameter on Facebook once, and he adopted me as a proofreader.' They smiled fondly. 'It's all really cute though, so I'm not complaining.'

He found it very difficult to get to sleep that second night. His watch was from ten to twelve-thirty, the longest shift, with Feuilly on the other beat. He offered to take the darker library path, and Grantaire did his best to hide his relief.

It still felt strange and wrong to be strolling through Corinth Park in the darkness, though it wasn't as bad as when it was the middle of the night. Almost everyone was still up, and now and again he heard a noise from the upper floors.

The watch passed without incident. Having roused Joly and sent him on his way, Grantaire returned to his room, puffing slightly from all the stairs. The window was still open, sucking all the heat out of the air. He closed it hurriedly and gave the aired shirt a sniff. It smelled like wind, though human odours still clung to the fabric.

Tossing it back onto the table, Grantaire pulled off the top Marius had donated and tried to trick is mind into thinking it was a mini blanket. It was a far cry from his duvet fort back at the flat, but it would have to do for now.

He lay there for some time, trying to fall asleep. It was taking a while. Perhaps he just wasn't as tired as the previous night, or maybe it was his fight with Enjolras that was keeping him awake. The confrontation went around and around in his head, accompanied by the stupid thought that Enjolras looked even more attractive when he was bristling with righteous anger. Still, there were things Grantaire could have said, things he could have said better, things perhaps he shouldn’t have said at all.

It was futile thinking about it now, not that Grantaire’s mind was sensible enough to realise that. He stared up at the ceiling, at criss-crossing maze of white pipes and metal light fixtures. He could paint it lying on his back, if that wouldn’t be so fucking uncomfortable. And anyway, didn’t white ceilings make rooms lighter? He thought he’d heard that somewhere. Mind roaming in a hundred different directions at once, Grantaire drifted off to sleep.

 

 ‘Hey.’ Marius found Eponine in her room, sitting cross-legged on her couch and plaiting Azelma’s hair back into a long braid.

‘Hey,’ Éponine smiled automatically at the sight of him. Today he looked unfairly cute, his hair mashed on one side after being slept on. ‘How come you’re up? Wasn’t your watch in the middle of the night?’

Marius shrugged. ‘Cosette likes the morning, and Bahorel’s distributing breakfast on a first-come-first-served basis. I’m not so keen on tinned artichokes.’

‘I don’t know, they’re definitely growing on _me,’_ Grantaire’s voice floated through from the corridor. ‘Is Éponine in there?’

‘Yeah,’ said Marius.

‘Is she decent?’

‘No, I’m naked,’ Éponine called, in a tone of exasperation. ‘Come in.’

Grantaire appeared round the door, holding a half-full can of said artichokes. He looked comically disappointed to see her fully clothed. ‘Cosette’s looking for you,’ he said to Marius, without preamble. 'Oh, and thanks for the clothes.'

‘Oh, right. You're welcome. See ya, ‘Ponine.’ With an adorable smile, Marius departed. It was nice of him to come and check on her, Éponine thought gloomily, but Marius's true priorities hadn't taken long to resurface.

Grantaire leant against the table, showing no sign of moving. ‘Could you plait my hair?’ he asked, as Éponine tied off the end of Azelma’s braid with a hair band.

Éponine snorted. ‘Why are you here again?’

‘Oh. It was really you Cosette was looking for, but I thought if I sent Marius he’d distract her.’

Azelma had risen and was now engrossed in giving her Barbie a toga-like dress out of a piece of rag. Éponine lowered her voice, though she doubted her sister cared about the train wreck that was her social life.

‘Why exactly did you think she needed distracting?’ she asked, her tone carefully measured.

Grantaire shrugged, and spread his hands in a placating gesture. ‘I suck at social stuff, but even I can tell you don’t like her. And if I had to guess why, I’d say it’s because you like Pontmercy.’ In a distant corner of his mind, he registered that he'd lost all control of what he was saying. It was an alarmingly familiar feeling.

‘This is your business _how?’_ Éponine demanded, hackles rising. ‘You think because you get heart eyes every time Enjolras walks into a room that you’re qualified to be my shrink? Or did you want to be my best friend and bond over sad shit? At least the guy I like knows I _exist_.’

She looked pointedly at the door, daggers in her eyes. Grantaire regained the ability to take a hint and left promptly, his mind buzzing. He wasn't sure even what his objective had been, other than getting under her skin. That he'd achieved, with the added bonus of possibly continuing to spread a reputation of being unreasonable and argumentative. Not that those words didn’t describe him worryingly well, but he liked to think there were others.

_Because you get heart eyes every time Enjolras walks into a room._

Out of everyone, Éponine had to be the most distracted. Between crushing on Marius, taking care of her siblings and generally staying alive, keeping an eye on who liked who had to be the furthest thing from her mind. Which led to the question, if Éponine had noticed something; had the others? Grantaire was pretty sure he’d never been the subject of gossip before, and he wasn’t really keen to start now. Though if it were really as obvious as Éponine made it sound, there wasn’t much he could do about it.

 

On the fourth floor, the biggest philosophy classroom had been converted into a mixed dining and rec room. Conveniently, it was located across the hall from the small staff kitchen that had become Bahorel’s territory. Initially Grantaire had assumed Bahorel’s appointment as head cook was more to do with destroying gender roles and social expectations than culinary skill. At 6’7, burly and tattooed, Bahorel was the stereotype of hyper-masculinity, but it turned out he had a certain talent for concocting weird and bizarre dishes out of their meagre supplies. 

When Grantaire entered the rec room, Bahorel was in the midst of composing a shopping list with Combeferre, while Feuilly and Enjolras argued about places to go, Enjolras batting away Feuilly's arguments like a bored cat. Grantaire tried not to stare for more than the most fleeting of moments, keenly aware that the others were in the room.

Seeking friendly company, he joined Jehan and Joly on chairs round a table, under a large red-and-white poster explaining Descartes' cosmological argument. They were playing a very energetic game of Snap, which Jehan was winning.

'You are awful at this,' they kept saying, whenever Joly's responses were spectacularly slow. 'How have you even survived this long?'

'Clearly not through hand-to-eye coordination,' Joly agreed. He seemed to be taking his constant defeat in relatively good humour. 'Must be because I date such strong, protective men.'

Across the room, Bossuet fell off a chair laughing at something Courfeyrac had said.

'So majestic,' said Grantaire. 'Like, have you seen the gif of this moose, and it's galloping - do moose gallop? - anyway, it's running down this icy road, and then all of a sudden it slips over and falls in a heap. It's probably funnier if you see it firsthand.'

'Bossuet!' Joly cried. 'Grantaire just said you were like a moose.'

Bossuet acknowledged the simile with a cheery wave.

'I miss gifs,' Jehan remarked, absently shuffling their huge stack of cards. 'And the rest of the Internet was pretty good.'

'It's still _technically_ there,' Joly reminded them, throwing down his two remaining cards in unspoken defeat. 'If you sell your soul for a decent connection, I mean.'

'Probably what Javert does all day,' said Grantaire. 'Sits on Tumblr and reblogs pictures of waterfalls and abandoned houses and meninist posts. When he's not trying to convert the apocalypse into a Vote For Me campaign.'

'That's a hideous image,' Jehan grimaced in a theatrical manner. 'Though I'm not sure whether Javert would be an actual meninist or just one of those stuffy, straight white men who deny that anything's wrong.'

'Please.' The game being abandoned, Grantaire gathered up the cards and started building a tower. 'I can see him, crouched in his office, typing out anonymous rants about how feminists are promoting misandry and should call themselves equalists.'

'Does Javert even have time to be a secret bigot?' Joly blew in the direction of the card tower, in an attempt to topple it.

Jehan smacked him away. 'Who knows? Between creating killer viruses in labs and making speeches that are only offensive if you listen to them, he must be a busy man.' They lowered their voice to a sepulchral tone. 'Deep in a chamber below his office, Britain's Prime Minister interrogates expert scientists. They cower before his gaze, terrified that their failure to produce an antidote will result in a fate worse than death - '

'Or zombiefication,' Joly interrupted,

'A fate worse than death or zombiefication,' Jehan resumed. 'It is the ultimate of punishments, the vilest of ends - death by karaoke.'

'You're giving me flashbacks,' Joly exclaimed. Then, seeing Grantaire's confused expression, added, 'Haven't you seen it?'

'I don't quite know what you mean and I'm not sure I want to.'

'Oh my god.' Jehan was grinning ear-to-ear now. 'How can you not have seen it? Javert was on some comedy news show as a publicity stunt and sang the chorus of Defying Gravity.'

That sounded vaguely familiar to Grantaire. Perhaps he wasn't as much of a social leper as he thought. 'Isn't that the -'

'Really high song that sounds like Let It Go? Yes it is.' Jehan nodded. 'Was it awful? Yes it was.'

Grantaire tried to imagine Javert singing, and failed.

'All right, is everyone here?' Enjolras's voice rose above the general chatter. Grantaire's eyes fixed on him immediately. Hoping Jehan and Joly hadn't noticed, he quickly looked away.

'Everybody but Éponine, I think,' said Courfeyrac, conducting a swift headcount.

'We should really organise a childcare roster,' mused Combeferre. 'They might be her siblings, but she needn't have all the responsibility.'

'Try telling her that.' Courfeyrac shook his head. 'She won't anyone touch them with a twelve-foot barge pole.'

Realising that most of the room was listening in, Combeferre cleared his throat and said, 'Yes, well. As almost all of you are here… Since yesterday we've been compiling a list of essentials we're running short on. We're mostly OK for food, but there are things like toilet paper, lightbulbs, essentials like that.'

'Blankets,' piped up Jehan, and quite a few people nodded in agreement.

'We'll add that,' Combeferre nodded to Feuilly, who jotted it down. 'Anything else vital that we're missing?'

'Tampons,' Éponine ducked her head in round the door, her little siblings in two. Gavroche and Azelma were in engaged in a spirited discussion about some superhero's backstory. It was the most animated Grantaire had ever seen Azelma, her eyes were bright and she was gesticulating enthusiastically. Éponine didn't hang round, after offering her contribution she withdrew and disappeared down the corridor.

'Tampons ,' Combeferre added it to the list without question. 'Unless anyone else has a suggestion, we'll stop there. Enjolras?'

Enjolras stepped forward. He wasn't wearing his jacket this morning, just a T-shirt that fell off him in all the right ways. At least when he was speaking, Grantaire had an excuse to stare.

'As usual, whenever we do a supply run, we pick people through volunteering. If none of you want to do it, than Combeferre, Courf and I will go. I don't think I have to say that it will be dangerous.'

'Sounds fun,' Jehan called. 'I'll do it.'

'And me,' Cosette smiled.

'Me too,' Marius said hastily, with a quick glance at his girlfriend.

'Three's good, four would be ideal. If anyone else- '

'I'll go,' said Grantaire suddenly. He wasn't sure why he'd spoken, only that Enjolras was surprised. It seemed to be the goal of Grantaire's life at the moment to etch that expression of sudden bewilderment onto that perfect face.

'You want to go.' Enjolras phrased it as a statement rather than question. His wide blue eyes had moved on from astonished to disbelieving.

'That's what I said, isn't it?' Grantaire set his jaw. It was worrying, how much delight he found in annoying Enjolras. Unfortunately, it was a spectator sport.

'That makes it four, then,' said Combeferre lightly. 'Thanks for volunteering.'

'Christ, Enjolras,' Courfeyrac spoke up. 'If you address every volunteer like you want in their pants, people will be lining up around the block.'

Joly snickered, and to Grantaire's eternal relief Combeferre swiftly moved the subject on.

 

Éponine saw a small party emerge from the front exit and leave Corinth Park by scaling the brick walls. From her vantage point up on the fifth floor, she could identify them easily, though that had a lot to do with their clothes.

She registered Cosette first, the only other girl, her auburn hair blowing in the breeze. Next to her, of course, was Marius, in skinny grey jeans and a blue jacket Éponine had given to him for his sixteenth. A lack of funds had forced her to shoplift it, not that she'd told Marius that. There was no point in ruining a present that had taken so much effort to get. 

Walking next to Marius was very clearly Jehan, recognizable in a long coat and a purple tie-dye shirt. From them, Éponine's gazed drifted back to Marius, and then finally to the last member of the group. He was wearing a hat, so she didn't recognise Grantaire at first, but it didn't take long. He was one of four white boys in the group and identifiable as not being Enjolras, Bossuet or Bahorel.

Resting her forehead against the window, Éponine watched her breath mist on the glass. She could have stayed at the meeting and volunteered in place of Grantaire or Jehan. Pros of which: she'd be able to protect Marius, cons of which: Cosette would be there, and she'd have to find someone to watch Azelma.

'Éponine?' it was Courfeyrac's voice. He'd just climbed the stairs, and was wheezing slightly.

'Yeah?'

She still wasn't sure how she felt about Courfeyrac. He was a little too charming in an uncomfortable way that reminded her of Montparnasse. At least now they were installed in the college, she could get away with avoiding interaction, back at the station privacy had been an abstract concept.

'I think Combeferre and Enjolras wanted to discuss babysitting with you,' Courfeyrac said, unruffled as always. 'They don't think it's fair for you to be on Kid Watch twenty-four seven.'

Éponine said nothing. Truth be told, she'd rather people stayed away from her siblings. She didn't want anyone getting too close to Azelma, both out of concern for her sister and a worry that she might let something slip. The others weren't stupid, they must know something was up with the Thénardiers, but Marius was the only one who knew the details and Éponine preferred to keep it that way. The last thing she wanted at the moment was a pity parade. Plus, having siblings to take care of meant she could avoid talking to people, aka Cosette. All in all, Éponine was quite happy with the arrangement as it stood.

To Courfeyrac, she said bluntly, 'I can manage.'

'Never said you couldn't,' he shrugged. 'Enjolras is all about fair distribution of labour and all that.' He smiled in his charming, likeable way, and Éponine felt herself stiffen. Courfeyrac was the happy-go-lucky Labrador that everybody loved, and it made her scrawny ill-tempered alley cat flatten its ears and hiss.

'I'll talk to him,' she said.

 

Marius and Cosette were holding hands and whispering sweet nothings under their breath, so Grantaire fell in step with Jehan, a few paces behind.

'What do you think they're saying?' he muttered, hoping the Perfect Couple couldn't hear.

They grinned. 'Sixty percent chance it's a _Sherlock_ conspiracy theory, thirty percent of survival strategy and the last ten is love poetry.'

'Only ten?'

Jehan nodded. 'Trust me. You do not want to hear some of Marius's rhymes. The metre is even worse. It's like he's trying to imitate Emily Dickinson, only he's got no idea what he's doing.'

'I take it you've read his poetry?' Grantaire slowed his step, enabling the others to pull even further ahead.

'Oh yes. Made the mistake of rephrasing a sentence in iambic pentameter on Facebook once, and he adopted me as a proofreader.' They smiled fondly. 'It's all really cute though, so I'm not complaining.'

'Do _you_ write poetry?'

'Now and again,' they shrugged. 'I like to think I'm better than Marius.'

He might have heard his name, because just then Marius swiveled around and called to them. 'Hey, keep up. Don't want to lose you.'

Grantaire wondered what he could say to pretend they hadn't just been discussing him, but Jehan was already on it. 'So who was your favourite Doctor?'

'Didn't watch past Tennant.'

'Some of the early doctors were really good.'

'I liked Christopher Eccleston,' Cosette interjected, joining in. 'It's a shame he only did one season.'

The talk of Doctor Who took them all the way to the shopping centre. When discussing locations, they'd weighed the dangerous aspects against the benefits of popular locations. With just four of them, it was too risky going back to the highstreet. Eventually, Grantaire had mentioned the 'mall', and that was where they were headed.

'This is actually hell on earth,' Jehan remarked, as they entered the shopping centre via the McDonald's. The interior was spectacularly messy: rubbish was spread all over the floor, most of the lights were broken and flies were everywhere, settling on piles of discarded food. 'And yet, somehow it's not as bad as it is during rush hour.'

Grantaire laughed. He wasn't sure he was able to imagine Jehan, with their bright shirts and poetic mind, standing in line for a cheeseburger and fries.

'How difficult do you think it would be to convince Enjolras we should live here?' Cosette joked, a smile lifting the side of her face.

'If you find the person who can, let me know,' Jehan stepped over an upturned bin. 'And I'll start running.'

From the McDonalds, they made their way into the main part of the building. They'd been given the pick of the hand-to-hand weapons when they left, and Cosette had reclaimed the hatchet, Marius the cricket bat. Grantaire and Jehan each had knives, and a small coil of wire for good measure. They all had backpacks.

The ground floor was depressing. Grantaire had visited the mall once or twice before the epidemic. He had a vague memory of small children holding balloons and handbag stalls. Chaotic, certainly, but nothing like the desolation he saw now.

'Why do they have a furniture shop in the middle of a mall?' Cosette pointed.

'I don't see the problem,' said Jehan brightly. 'I know when I go shopping I buy some nice shoes, grab a milkshake and pick up,' he looked at the window display, 'a coffee table.'

'Gift horse, much?' Marius frowned, stepping forward and attempting to pull the automatic sliding doors apart. 'It has what we want, so stop grumbling.'

It took the combined strength of all four of them to wrench the doors open. Grantaire waited until they had succeeded to point out the smashed hole two windows along.

'Does this not count as breaking and entering, if we don't actually break anything?' he wondered aloud, as they picked their way through the shop.

Nobody bothered to answer. Jehan was eyeing a navy blue couch with an air of mistrust. 'I'm torn between wanting to sit on something comfortable for the first time in ever, and not being sure if someone's pissed on it or not.'

'It all boils down to whether you value comfort or hygiene more,' said Grantaire, and Cosette pulled a face.

A few minutes later, Jehan found a clean, cream-coloured armchair. After a swift inspection they dived onto it and sank into the cushions, a look of pure delight on their face. Watching them, Grantaire was reminded of a cat that had just found a patch of warm sunshine.

'You'll have to leave me here,' they announced, unable to conceal the glee on their face.

'Come on,' Marius sounded irritated. 'We don't have that long.'

'Oh, shush.' Cosette broke off examining their shopping list to smile fondly at Jehan. 'Let them have a moment.'

'If it's not the thickest of questions, what are we doing in a furniture shop?' Grantaire inquired, picking up an ugly lamp and contemplating it with mild disgust.

'It's not just a furniture shop, it's Beech Tree Home Supplies,' said Marius, reading the shopping list over Cosette's shoulder. 'According to Feuilly, it has blankets and cooking supplies. Mixing and serving bowls, to be specific.'

'I'm not risking my life for anything that will enable Bahorel to make sardine soup,' Grantaire declared, watching Jehan reluctantly unpeel themself from the armchair.

'There's a lot to get, so we should start now.' Marius scanned the list. 'Maybe we should split up?'

'Have you ever seen any horror movie ever?' Grantaire shook his head. 'Splitting up just means you can get picked off one by one, till just the virgin survives. I don't know about you lot, but that ain't gonna be me.'

Cosette coughed. 'Standing around isn't going to do anything. Come on.'

Beech Tree Home Supplies was home to a startlingly wide range of household products. Grantaire filled his backpack with several fleecy blankets and a small cushion. There was still some space in the pockets, so when Cosette called him over to accompany her to Superdrug, he agreed.

'It's not quite the same as splitting up,' she reasoned, stuffing a frenzied mixture of tampons and pads into her bag and nodding at Grantaire to start loading up on Paracetamol and Ibuprofen. He did as he was bid, collecting as much medication as he could lay his hands on.

'Is it true that Éponine asked you to stay?' she asked, as they worked.

'What? Oh, yeah. _Asked_ might be a bit much. _Suggested_ is more like it.'

'I don't think she likes me,' Cosette admitted, and Grantaire realised with an unpleasant lurch of his stomach that she had no idea that Éponine fancied Marius. 'But I'd like us to be friends.'

'Yeah,' he muttered, not wanting to accidentally say too much.

'At first I thought she was being weird because she was Marius's best friend,' Cosette continued, with painful cluelessness. 'And I get it, it's weird and annoying when your friend starts dating and doesn't see as much of you. But I don't know, recently it's started to feel more personal.'

'You're quite different people,' was Grantaire's profound offering to the conversation. 'Maybe it's just that.'

Cosette pursed her lips. 'Maybe.'

 

Superdrug was the most useful shop so far. As well as painkillers and sanitary products, they found toothbrushes, hair dye and curling irons. For some reason, Cosette didn't think the latter two were necessary, much to Grantaire's disappointment.  

'Look how much of the makeup has gone,' he pointed out, at one stage. 'Maybe this apocalypse thing is just to cover up the biggest fashion show the world has ever seen.'

'Or, maybe initially everyone had stupid priorities,' said Cosette, which sounded much more likely.

 

Grantaire was looking through a chocolate display in hopes of finding an unopened box when he heard Cosette say, 'Oh, hey Jehan. We're almost finished here.'

He glanced across the shop. He could see Cosette clearly, but an aisle blocked Jehan from view. The only part visible was the top of their head.

'Are you OK?' Cosette asked, in a tentative tone that set alarm bells ringing in Grantaire's head. 'Where's Marius?'

Jehan said nothing. Grantaire dropped the armful of _Celebrations_ boxes he was holding and was halfway across the shop before he fully registered what was happening. He heard Cosette's, 'oh, no' even though it was barely more than a whisper.

It was as he'd suspected. Jehan was standing there, their face pale and their eyes oddly unfocused. They were surveying Cosette, who was backing away slowly.

'My axe,' she said, astonishingly calm. 'It's on the table.'

Grantaire couldn't move. He was gazing helplessly at Jehan, willing them to say something and make it into a joke, make it into anything but the horrible reality that was presenting itself.

' _My axe,'_ Cosette repeated, and this time there was a slight strain to her voice. She took a deep breath, and, still slowly retreating, addressed Jehan. 'Hey, can you hear me? It's Cosette - we met a few weeks ago. You know my boyfriend, Marius? Jehan, are you in there? Blink if you can hear me.'

Their eyes remained glassy, but they took a step forwards.

With a glance at Grantaire, Cosette made up her mind. She darted backwards, closed her hand around the hatchet's handle and snatched it off the counter. Jehan didn't like the sudden movement. They stumbled forwards, gait uneven, and it was then that Grantaire saw the torn strips of shirt and open, weeping wound on their back. Blood had soaked into the tie-dyed fabric, gluing it to the skin, and the teeth marks on the back of their neck were unmistakable.

Grantaire's mouth went dry. Fear stabbed through him and his feet came unglued; he lurched forwards just as Jehan attacked Cosette. Pale and shaking, she dodged to the side and held the axe out in front of her. She'd stopped talking. She, like Grantaire, had realised the futility of the situation.

He reached for his knife. It suddenly looked very small. Brandishing it in one hand, he assaulted Jehan from the back, slicing wildly at their neck. Fresh blood welled and spurted in a way that implied a severed artery; it splashed against the shop walls and painted them scarlet. Watching it and knowing it was Jehan's blood made Grantaire feel a bit sick.

Thank God Cosette still had her head in the game. Jehan was moving quickly but clumsily, enabling her to dash around them and deliver a forceful blow to the neck, cutting into the existing wound. Jehan's head jerked forwards, but remained attached. The power of the blow sent the axe skittering across the floor. 

‘Here!’ Grantaire shouted, pulling the wire coil from his pocket and tossing it to Cosette. She understood him immediately, catching it in one hand and unwinding it, curling a loop around Jehan’s lolling head and wrenching it tight.  It had the desired effect. Their body toppled with a _thud_ , their head rolling away across the floor.

The two of them stared at it, momentarily paralysed. Then Grantaire heaved a great shuddering breath, leaning against the wall for support.

This moment had been coming ever since the virus first started to spread, if anything, he was lucky to have escaped it for so long. Then again, if he'd been beheading friends every Tuesday, he might have got used to it. 

He swallowed. His head was spinning and he could taste bile at the back of his throat. One look at Cosette confirmed that she was feeling the same way. Her face was ashen and her hands were shaking violently.

Taking a deep breath, she said, 'Are you all right?'

'Yeah.' He took a couple of unstable steps towards her.  'Are you - ' he began, but she interrupted him with a gasp.

' _Marius.'_

Fuck. Marius. Grantaire grabbed his backpack off the floor and threw Cosette's at her. 'We'll find him and go.'

She caught it awkwardly, already running for the door and shouting her boyfriend's name. He was right behind her. They burst out into the main causeway of the shopping centre and were greeted by a horrible sight. Zombies had crowded into the mall, pouring in from all directions. It was easily the largest gathering of the undead Grantaire had ever seen.

' _MARIUS!'_ Cosette screamed. She made as if to start forward into the heaving crowd. Grantaire caught her in time and yanked her back.

'Cosette, no.'

'He's in there! We have to find him, we have to - '

'Run. That's what we have to do.' He gave her arm a little shake. 'There's no way we can fight this many. Marius could be alive, he might have got away - '

'I have to know!' she tried to prise his fingers off her bicep, but her own hands were shaking too much to be effective. 'I need to see if he's - '

' _Cosette,'_ said Grantaire roughly. 'You already killed Jehan, can you really kill Marius too? _Come on.'_

She went limp. In the harsh light from the light strips, he could see tears glimmer in her eyes.

'We have to run,' she said numbly.

Grantaire let go of her arm. 'Then let's run.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realised *after* writing this chapter that in interests of representation it's not a great idea to kill off the only nonbinary character. (I'm sorry Jehan, I am). Only in the brick, Jean Prouvaire is captured by the National Guard and executed on the spot, so I wanted to do something on that theme.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Go after him, because we'll die? That's what you're saying, isn't it? Don't mindlessly throw yourself away for love, you can do better!' Her eyes blazed, bright and unforgiving as stars. Tears glittered in ravines on her cheeks and Grantaire wondered why crying was ever considered to be a sign of weakness.

They got out of the shopping centre through the storeroom of an eyebrow-threading parlour; Cosette pale as snow, looking for Marius around every corner. Her voice cracked from yelling for her boyfriend, and Grantaire was afraid that if she ran off searching he wouldn't be able to stop her.

'We have to go back to the college,' he puffed, as they emerged out into the open, onto a back street.

'What if he's trapped somewhere?' Cosette was both hysterical and determined. Somehow she still had her axe, and for a second it looked like she was considering using it on him. 'He could be _waiting_ for us, I - '

'He would want you to be safe.' Grantaire took a deep breath, hoping to calm the pounding in his ears. He was not good at talking, not the serious sort of talking that counted. As far as ribald tales dripping with sarcasm were concerned he was an expert, but the second it needed to have meaning he'd happily let somebody else more eloquent take over. Only there was no one else in the dirty back street and he'd never forgive himself if he didn't try.

'Cosette,' he began haltingly, without a clue of how he'd finish. 'You saw how many zombies there were in there. We can't - '

'Go after him, because we'll die? That's what you're saying, isn't it? Don't mindlessly throw yourself away for love, you can do better!' Her eyes blazed, bright and unforgiving as stars. Tears glittered in ravines on her cheeks and Grantaire wondered why crying was ever considered to be a sign of weakness.

This wasn't an argument he could win. Not when she was holding a hatchet and his own fear was bitter at the back of his mouth. In his minds' eye he could see Enjolras's disappointed face, his anger that Grantaire had managed to lose every member of his team. It was not an appealing thought.

Then the unexpected happened: Cosette surrendered. With a great heaving sigh that came from the deepest depths of her lungs, she ducked her head and crumpled in on herself. Her voice floated through the autumn-coloured curtain of hair that hid her face, thin and brittle as an eggshell.

'It's OK. I get it. We'll go in a minute. I just…'

 _Don't want to be the person that gives up_ , Grantaire's mind supplied. That much he understood.

They waited for a few minutes longer. From one of her pockets Cosette pulled a miniature radio, and had started to talk into it, simultaneously tentative and desperate.

'Where d'you get the walkie-talkie?' Grantaire asked, when it became clear she was getting no response. 'Was it part of the survival pack?'

Cosette shook her head. 'Marius found them. We've been using them, if we're on different chore shifts. Either he's lost his or he's out of range.'

She didn't voice the third possibility, and Grantaire didn't push the matter. Once he was confident that she could walk without falling, he held out his hand to help her up.

'Come on, then.'

She scrambled up without assistance. 'Are you OK to run back?'

'Let's compromise with a jog,' he said, glad to return to the subject in hand. 'God, I wish we had a car.'

'I can't drive.'

'Well, me neither,' he admitted, 'but it's the apocalypse, nobody's going to be asking for our licenses.'

Cosette smiled. The movement looked almost mechanical. 'All right. Come on.'

 

The journey felt shorter on the way back. Grantaire led the way; retracing the path they'd trodden just an hour before. They passed one zombie wandering aimlessly in the other direction. Its stilted gait and tattered clothes sent Grantaire's heart thumping, but it was too far away to pose a serious threat.

'Thank God,' Cosette breathed, as they came in sight of the college.

'Never thought I'd be pleased to see such a shithole,' Grantaire agreed. His breathing was certainly much easier once they'd scaled the outer wall and reached the safety of the other side.

It almost felt like home, he thought, walking through the reception and hopping over Bahorel's many tripwires. Unsurprisingly, the ground floor of the college was empty, but on up on the second level stairwell they encountered Courfeyrac.

'That was qui - ' he started to say; voice trailing away when he realised it was just the two of them. 'What happened?'

Cosette stared at the ground.

'You'll hear in a minute,' said Grantaire. He wasn't anxious to tell the story any more times than he had to.

They climbed the remainder of the stairs in silence, Courfeyrac suitably subdued. Grantaire's heartbeat was finally returning to normal, his panic making way for cold dread. Now and again he snuck a glance at Cosette. Her jaw was clenched resolutely and it looked like it was taking every ounce of her willpower to keep walking. Somehow it was harder here in the college than out on the street, perhaps because their own survival was no longer under threat. He wanted to reassure her, but as before there was nothing he could say to make anything any better.

The fourth floor came far too soon. Courfeyrac walked with them as far as the rec room, where Bossuet and Feuilly were dumping books in stacks.

'Combeferre and Enjolras were having a Serious Leader talk in his room,' Courfeyrac told them, with just a hint of his usually jaunty self  'Enjolras's room, that is.'

'I know where it is, it's next to mine,' confirmed Cosette. It was the first thing she'd said since returning to the college.

She and Grantaire climbed the last flight of stairs and trudged down the corridor, past his room, to a door with a sign bearing the name _Enjolras_ in red felt tip. Someone - Grantaire was betting on Courfeyrac or Joly - had added _the fabulous_ in biro.

Cosette knocked, and pushed open the door without waiting for a reply. Inside, the room's owner was lying on his couch with his feet hanging off the end, staring up at the ceiling. His hair was spilling out in all directions, outlining his head with gold. Grantaire felt an urge to paint him in a mock Renaissance-style, vehemently denouncing anti-abortion laws in a toga.

Next to the couch, Combeferre was spread out on the floor in a tangle of stocky limbs. '…even if the astronauts don't have weapons, they're still going to win,' he was saying.

At the sight of company Enjolras sat up, nudging Combeferre with his foot. They took in the sight of Grantaire and Cosette, standing by themselves. You could almost hear Enjolras's mind whir as he assessed the situation.

'Shit,' he said. 'Are you two OK? What - '

Cosette stepped forward and began to explain, her voice a controlled monotone. Grantaire found the story strange to listen to. Even though he'd been there, and every word sparked an image - Jehan's lifeless eyes, the heaving mass of zombies in the mall - it sounded remote, unfamiliar, like something he'd seen in a film rather than something he'd experienced firsthand.

Combeferre and Enjolras listened dutifully and without interruption. Both were standing now, bearing identically grave expressions.

'He wasn't anywhere, so we came back,' Cosette concluded. Talking seemed to have calmed her down; she was certainly steadier than Grantaire felt. But then, the situation might not be new to her, he realised. She must have had a family, who could be dead or missing. This could all be part of a horrible, soul-crushing routine.

'You did the right thing,' said Combeferre eventually. 'It sounds like there were too many to take on, and this way, we know what happened.'

'I know,' she answered flatly. 'And I know we can't go looking for him. But I want to.'

A frown creased Combeferre's forehead. Laying a cautious hand on Cosette's elbow, he steered her away towards the door, talking gently yet insistently.

Left standing with Enjolras, Grantaire searched for something to say and came up empty handed. He looked around the walls, curious to see how Enjolras had decorated. The history of art posters were gone, replaced by charts stolen from the English classrooms a couple of floors down. Tacked up over the bed was a minimalist map of London, a single yellow drawing pin marking the college's location.

'Cosette had a radio,' he blurted out, anxious to break the oppressive silence. 'A walkie-talkie type thing. She kept calling him.'

Enjolras's expression was inscrutable. 'They loved each other. _Love_ each other.'

'I got that impression.' Restless, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. Marius's pockets, of the jeans Marius had given him. 'Has she lost - I mean, her family - '

'Missing,' Enjolras nodded. 'Raised by her mum, but she wasn't with her when it stated. Haven't heard a peep.'

'And you?' Grantaire wasn't sure what compelled him to ask, only that he wanted to know.

Enjolras exhaled. 'My parents weren't in the country. My father's French, so they spend a lot of time there. They haven't been in contact.'

'Doesn't mean they're not trying.' Grantaire could picture it all too well, the concerned, wealthy parents worrying about their clever, handsome son.

'What about you?' Enjolras changed tack. 'What happened to your family?'

'I don't know.' Grantaire's answer was the same as everyone else's. 'Wasn't living with them. Not sure I care.'

'Were you at uni?'

'With you geniuses, you mean? Hell no. I was working, if you could call it that.'

Enjolras's eyes were very blue in the weak afternoon sunlight. If he were anyone else, Grantaire would suspect him of wearing tinted contacts. 'Cosette will be OK, you know. She's tougher than she looks.'

'I got that impression,' Grantaire repeated. 'Think she'll really go after him?'

'Hopefully Combeferre can convince her not to. It's dangerous out there by herself, and grief can make you reckless.'

Grantaire had no response to that. After another lengthy pause, he said, 'I'm sorry about what happened to Jehan.'

'Don't be. It wasn't something you could do anything about.'

'Cosette killed them. I mean, obviously they were already dead, but she. You know.' He was babbling now.

'Are you all right, Grantaire?' Enjolras's concern was evident. It was possible he was just trying to be nice, but it rubbed Grantaire up the wrong way.

'Me? I'm fine. Good. OK, even. No need for the charitable pity.'

'It's not charity,' Enjolras insisted. His expression said otherwise.

'OK, out of the goodness of your heart then. Can't have sentries breaking down on the job.' Grantaire started edging towards the door. 'See you around.'

'I'm allowed to ask after your wellbeing as a _person._ Look, if you need anything…'

'I'll bother you.' He was nearly at the doorway. 'O courageous leader.'

Enjolras scowled.

 

At first when Éponine saw Cosette's stricken face, her heart lifted. Unhappy Cosette meant trouble in paradise, which was exactly what Éponine wanted. Only Combeferre was right behind her, his usually thoughtful expression sombre, and Éponine's spirits took a sudden dive.

'Éponine!' Cosette called, oddly relieved. 'I was looking for you.'

'Why did you need me?' Éponine inquired, sidestepping the offered embrace. 'Fuck - did something happen to Marius?'

This time it was Combeferre who answered. 'He's missing. They encountered zombies at the mall. Jehan … was turned. Cosette and Grantaire made it back.

 _Missing._ Éponine knew the connotations of that word. Lost people were rarely found, especially not in one piece.

The breath left her chest all at once and she stood rigidly still, praying for composure. Cosette and Combeferre were still watching her, anxiously sympathetic.

She didn't want their sympathy. Her flight instinct kicked in and she wheeled around, striding down the corridor. Her breath was catching in her throat and she could feel herself shaking. She passed Grantaire on the stairs without acknowledging him.  'Hey,' he said, and she kept going because she didn't want his condolences either.

'Hey,' he said again, louder, and started to come after her. 'Éponine, slow down.'

'I don't want to talk.'

'Good thing I'm not going to. Well, much,' he amended. 'Look, there's a supply room on the second floor. Pretends to be locked, but it isn't. If you want to get away.'

Éponine nodded stiffly. She didn't like Grantaire, not after their last meeting. It didn't make sense that he'd help her now, yet it wouldn't hurt to have a look.

The storeroom was as he'd said, halfway along the second floor. It was tiny - its size reminded Éponine of her old bedroom - and nearly full of cleaning supplies. She hesitated, uneasy at taking Grantaire's advice. He was a dick, but the room was invitingly dark, cluttered and enclosed. Éponine slipped inside, and shut the door behind her.

With privacy at last, she collapsed in a heap against the wall, her hands clenching into fists. Emotions were boiling inside her; rage, frustration and despair all battling for dominance. Marius was gone. She would have given her life to save him, but no such chance had arisen. He was just _gone_. It was Cosette's fault for not protecting him, and Éponine's fault for not going with them.

In the space of just a few hours, she'd lost her best friend. Marius had been her next-door-neighbour for years, back before he took off to uni and started living with Courfeyrac. Éponine remembered the flats well, a crummy building overseen by a toothless woman called Gorbeau. Marius's room had been just through the wall from hers, and they'd knocked messages through to each other in Morse code. She missed it horribly.

There was a noise from outside the storeroom, and then a sudden burst of light as the door swung open. Éponine threw up a hand to shield her eyes, and the door closed again with a click. In the ensuing silence, she became uncomfortably aware of breathing beside her own.

'Éponine?' they said, and of course it was Cosette's voice, small and timid in the dark. There was a scuffling noise, then Éponine felt the other girl settle on the floor beside her. She wanted to shrink away from the touch, but there wasn't enough space. Their shoulders were brushing ever so slightly; Cosette's skin was cool and she smelled like spring.

'Grantaire said I could find you here,' Cosette said quietly.

Éponine made a small noise of acknowledgement. _The traitor_. It was hardly surprising that trusting him had been a mistake.

'I really wanted to talk to you,' Cosette continued. 'I know you don't like me, but we both like Marius, so I thought we could talk.'

'And say what?'

'That I'm sorry. I daresay you blame me, and you're right to. I left him, alone with Jehan.' Her breath shuddered. 'I'm sorry.'

'You're right,' I do blame you,' said Éponine curtly. 'And myself, for not going.' She felt Cosette's head lean on her shoulder, and was so used to Azelma doing the same that she leant back automatically.

'I missed him,' Cosette sniffed, unbearably fragile. 'I keep thinking. What if he's hurt? Or trapped somewhere? I told Grantaire we had to look. He wouldn't let me.'

'Marius is more capable than you think,' said Éponine, soothing despite herself. 'Did he tell you about the time he got chased by a crazy Staffie?'

'No.'

'Well, he was round my house - we were what, ten? He was still with his grandfather, obviously. It was before the big Running Away. One of my dad's friends, Gueumeler, was round with his dog.' Éponine left herself fall into the swing of the story. 'Marius wasn't supposed to be there, so he hid in the shed, only the dog could smell him. It chased him out, barking and snarling and looking generally murderous.'

'What did he do?'

'Climbed up on top of the shed and screamed for help,' She smiled fondly at the memory. 'Azelma and I got the dog under control.'

'Maybe he'll do that then.' Cosette murmured. 'Climb up somewhere high and wait till the zombies go away.'

Éponine let herself visualize that for a moment. 'I'm surprised you haven't gone chasing after him yet. I would.'

'I wanted to. Combeferre talked me out of it.' Cosette sighed. Nobody ever won arguments with Combeferre. Then she brightened, springing up into a kneeling position so that she faced the other girl in the dark. 'You could come with me! We could go together.'

'No, I can't.' Éponine couldn't pretend she didn't want to, Cosette or no Cosette. 'Siblings, remember?'

'Oh, yeah.' Cosette's bubble burst. She leant against Éponine again. 'Could you tell me more stories? About Marius?'

Anything else Éponine would have denied her. But talking about Marius - specifically, _her_ and Marius - was more than she could resist. Stories poured out of her before she could stop them, tales of when he was a skinny little kid whose gangling frame and long eyelashes made him look like a giraffe. Cosette was the perfect audience, listening attentively and accepting without question Éponine's unsaid assertion that young Marius was hers, and hers alone. Cosette had (or did have) his future, Éponine was permitted his past.

 

Desiring an activity and an excuse to avoid Enjolras, Grantaire joined Joly, Bossuet and Feuilly in building an upstairs library. One way or another they had heard about what had happened, and were very determinedly not talking about it. That was a sentiment Grantaire could get on board with, so when Joly protested that they didn't need to carry an actual bookshelf upstairs, he joined forces with Feuilly arguing that they should.

'We're hoping Corinth Park can serve for long-term accommodation,' Feuilly pointed out. 'It doesn't make sense to leave books lying around. We should only need one.'

The approved selection of books already assembled in the rec room was a moderately pretentious mixture of philosophy journals, biographies and literary classics. Out of the assembled titles, The Great Gatsby and The Tempest were the only ones Grantaire had read, and he hadn't liked either.

That said, he was grateful for the distraction. Lugging a bookshelf upstairs was an easier task than Bossuet made it sound, but it was not without challenges. The biggest of which was the fact that Joly waited until they were halfway up to start campaigning to add _A Song of Ice and Fire_ to their range.

'We needn't be snobbish and only read highbrow stuff,' he argued, lifting his end of the bookcase around a corner. 'God, we'd all be like Combeferre. You know what he was doing the other day? I went in to ask him something, and he was drawing a _silk-worm moth_. Because he wanted to see if he could remember how.'

On another day, in another time, the remark would have been funny. As it was, Bossuet made a strangled sound that Grantaire suspected was meant to be a laugh, and Joly sighed.

'Combeferre has fun sometimes,' said Feuilly valiantly. 'You should see him at pub quizzes.'

'Yeah, but with him it's all the quiz and none of the pub,' Bossuet pointed out.

'He _goes_ to those events, at least,' Feuilly added. Having hit a worthwhile vein of distracting conversation, he was not giving up. 'Enjolras would stay in and write speeches for rallies.'

'Did you go to uni with them?' Grantaire asked, deliberately careless.

'Yeah,' Feuilly said it casually, like it was no big deal to be on the same academic level as a couple of geniuses. 'He, Combeferre, Combeferre and I were all at Oxford.'

'Don't use too many big words now,' Joly cautioned mockingly, and now there was a genuine smile on his face. 'Us layabouts from common places might not understand.'

'I really can't picture Enjolras as a sleep-deprived student,' said Grantaire.

Feuilly laughed shortly. 'He was one, I assure you. His room was on the same corridor as mine, so I can say with certainty that Enjolras is capable of doing everything in his pajamas. Then he and Courfeyrac had an argument about dating, and Courfeyrac stole all his clothes apart from his pajama bottoms. That was a fun week.'

Grantaire missed a step and nearly carved a gouge in the wall with the corner of the bookcase. Mental images of shirtless Enjolras were going to haunt him now, wonderful.

'A whole week?' Joly was saying.

'It was more like a couple of days,' Feuilly admitted. 'Combeferre and I took pity on him after that.'

They were almost at the top of the stairs now, just one flight to go. Feuilly appeared to have run out of things to say, and he wasn't the only one. The brief reprieve that had come with the lighthearted conversation had passed, leaving them all with far too much time to think. That was always his problem, Grantaire realised, and it was the overarching problem with the entire apocalypse. He could deal with zombies and dead friends and food that was criminally bad, as long as he never had to process that it was happening. And unfortunately, denial was not a state in which you could be forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who would win in a fight, astronauts or cavemen? It's a debate that plagues many.
> 
> If anyone is actually following this I'm so sorry that this update is horrifically late. It's been a hectic week, my time management skills are not my best and I was accidentally late to my father's birthday.  
> In better news, I was told by the head of Creative Writing at my college that I not only can but should mention that I write Les Mis fanfiction in my coursework commentaries.
> 
> (And due to my terrible scheduling, the next chapter will also be late).


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I've been friends with Courfeyrac long enough to know makeup when I see it,' Enjolras insisted. 'What were you painting?'

Two days after the disastrous supply run, Grantaire decided to start painting his room. Useful chores were thin on the ground, and the prospect of another game of poker would be unbearable. Having taken custody of Joly's cards, Éponine had roped everybody into playing.  It was entertaining initially, not least because Enjolras had never played before and Courfeyrac was forcing him to. Grantaire and Enjolras were on rather uncertain terms: their interaction was limited, though Grantaire couldn't help laughing at Enjolras's frequent blunders.

However, after a nearly solid day of poker the cards lost their charm and entertainment was to be sought elsewhere. Éponine resumed grappling with the TV, gaining access to the odd reality show rerun and an occasional speech of Javert's. The Prime Minister had nothing new to say, merely continuing to promote the safety of the government camps.

'He acts like it's Disneyworld,' Bahorel muttered disgustedly. 'You won't die _and_ there's food. Whoopity fucking whoop.'

Yet their hatred for Javert had to take a back seat when Éponine managed to tune into a programme titled 'I Spy - Z', which was essentially a mock documentary, unsurprisingly focusing on the undead. It involved a couple of middle-aged white British idiots (didn't all comedy?) running around rural towns with a brainless camera crew, discussing zombie behaviour in a feebly slapstick manner. They deemed it horrific, Gavroche thought it was amazing.

'That's not even politically incorrect anymore, it's just wrong,' Combeferre said despairingly, when through the use of various euphemisms the presenters discussed whether female zombies still menstruated. 'From a medical point of view, this would be a valuable question. If they weren't choosing to focus on the 'ew gross' factor and had some qualified people discussing zombie behaviour and biology, it would be _useful.'_

'Ah, but you forget,' Grantaire spoke up, from where he and Bahorel were dismantling a revolving office chair. 'That would require Javert permitting people to know things, and we can't have that.'

Combeferre let out a sigh of frustration, and they left Gavroche to it. The boy was still claiming privilege due to his sprained ankle, despite Joly's assurances that it should have healed by now.

Grantaire parted with Bahorel following a petty disagreement, collected all the paint he could find - whether it be acrylic, oil or watercolour - and shut himself in his room for the remainder of the afternoon. He possessed no plans, only ideas, and for some time occupied himself with a colour gradient on a bare patch of wall next to the window, experimenting with different hues and testing what he had.

A long time had passed since he'd last held a paintbrush. In recent weeks, surviving had been at the forefront of his mind, but even before that he'd lacked time for art. Employed at more than one unsavoury job, he'd either been drunk or wished he were. A few sketches had cropped up here and there, scribbled on the back of receipts or napkins. Painting was completely out of the question. 

Now, faced with the biggest empty canvas he'd ever been offered, he took some time to relax into a rhythm. The movements came back slowly, like a dream dragged our of your memory one picture at a time. Eventually the only thing lacking was music; some sort of soundtrack to go with the regular brush strokes. It was a shame iPods weren't high on apocalyptic shopping lists. Sounds of conversation and laughter echoed up from the floor below, and now and again he heard footsteps in the corridor outside. They always went past without stopping. He hummed to himself, and sang rather tunelessly under his breath. 

Several hours later, the last of the sun's rays were staining the horizon and he heard footsteps again, quicker and more purposeful than the ones before. They stopped outside. Grantaire assumed they were going to Combeferre's room, till a knock came at his door.

He abandoned an eye in the middle of painting the eyelashes, intent on opening the door himself so he could bar the way. The painting wasn't _private_ , but at times he had forgotten that anybody else was ever going to see it. That was the problem of being used to living alone. 

Opening the door he came face-to-face with Enjolras, who was standing on the threshold with a distinctly irritated expression. Wondering how he'd managed to annoy someone without ever leaving his room, Grantaire leant on the doorframe and did his best to pretend his palms weren't sweating. 'Hey?'

'Hey.' Enjolras muttered, stiff and bashful yet still intimidating. 'We were wondering if you were all right. Nobody'd seen you for a while.'

He said 'we', but he was alone in the corridor. Did that mean Enjolras himself had been worried, or had he deemed checking on Grantaire too unpleasant a task to delegate? It was the sort of thought that was going to result in a charmingly sleepless night.

'I'm fine,' Grantaire said. 'Lost track of time.'

'Were you painting?' Enjolras craned his neck to look past into the room.

'No,' he said automatically.

'Then why do you have paint all over your hands? I think there's even some in your hair.'

Reflexively, Grantaire reached up to touch his head. As he did so he saw there was a streak of yellow on the back of his hand, and two of his fingers were blue. Wonderful.

'Maybe I was experimenting with makeup,' he said, deadpan. 'Trying to find myself, you know.'

'I've been friends with Courfeyrac long enough to know makeup when I see it,' Enjolras insisted. 'What were you painting?'

Grantaire knew that if he said no, Enjolras would be considerate enough to let it slide. The king of social justice was unlikely to deliberately make anyone uncomfortable. Yet as always when Enjolras was concerned, he felt a prickle, a need to say something that would shock him, if only for a moment. Grantaire yearned to be noticeable, that was it, a primary school problem. So in lieu of answering he stepped back, opening the door wide in invitation.

Enjolras stepped through, eyes widening when he saw the wall. Grantaire felt a sharp pang of embarrassment, wishing he'd refused. While he hadn't done anything totally incriminating, like say, painting blond avenging angels in red leather jackets, the wall wasn't one clear picture or even a coherent mural. To a stranger it must look like a mess, starting over by the filing cabinets and spreading across the wall as though it were a lurid fungus.

Not a word has passed Enjolras's lips since he laid eyes on the artwork. He was scanning it in detail, critiquing, no, _absorbing_ it, doubtless wondering how one picture could go so wrong.

'Care to grace us mortals with your opinion, Holy One?' Grantaire asked finally. 'If you've been paralysed by the Gorgon-ness, Combeferre is not going to be happy.'

'I didn't know you could paint,' Enjolras said, and shook his head, dissatisfied. 'I didn't know you could paint like _this.'_

'Like Michelangelo or like a five-year-old? Because that could be a compliment, but I'm not sure it is.'

'It looks good,' he insisted. 'I like the cat.'

'What? Oh, yeah.' Grantaire shifted his weight from one foot to another. 'When in doubt, put in a cat.'

'I'd have pegged you for a dog person.' Enjolras was moving closer to the wall, seemingly intrigued by it. Grantaire felt a quick thrill at having done something that Enjolras liked, even approved of, and then realised how pathetic that was. '"Cats are evil and going to take over the earth", you know.'

'Oh, world domination is definitely on the cat agenda. That's why I'm friends with them, so they spare me when the time comes.'

'I just like them because they turn lethargy into an art form.' Nodding to the wall, he added, 'Courfeyrac would like this.'

'It's not done yet,' Grantaire said hastily. 'I only let you in because you're hot.'

Enjolras opened his mouth to say something, but Grantaire forestalled him. 'Is that only OK when Courfeyrac says it? Because I was joking. Generally I dislike attractive people, because you can get anyone to support you in anything.'

'Was that what you were doing before?' Enjolras asked, ignoring the jibe. He was still gazing at the wall, something akin to admiration in his eyes. He would never look at Grantaire like that, but Grantaire had still caused that expression, and that was almost enough. 'Before we met you. Were you painting?'

'Not really.' Grantaire leant against the table for something to do. 'I'm sure I should have been making the time matter, but I can't say I could be bothered.'

'All time matters,' a little frown had crept its way onto Enjolras's face. 'Were you wanting to spend the rest of your life playing video games?'

Grantaire considered. 'Well, when my grandchildren ask what I did during the Apocalypse, I'd be able to tell them I'd acquired a deep knowledge of the romance genre.'

(The grandchildren in question were purely hypothetical. Grantaire couldn't picture himself raising a kid, much less a kid who was not-fucked-up enough to have a kid themselves.)

Seeing the other guy was about to ask, Grantaire held up his hand. 'You don't want to know,' he said. 'Some people have seriously shitty film collections.'

'Actually, I believe we should stop calling it 'The Apocalypse'. It implies that this is the end, or that nothing good can come after it. We don't know that and I don't reckon we should think it.'

'You have grand plans to rebuild the country and make it a better place for future generations… Why am I not surprised?'

'For gods' sake, Grantaire! Don't you believe in anything?'

'Didn't take you for a religious type.'

He made an impatient sound. 'Politically. Ethically. What do you believe?'

 _That you love justice more than people_ , Grantaire said inwardly. _That your eyes are the brightest things in any room, but you can't see anyone because your pedestal is too high for us to climb, and it's lonely up there._

'I believe in many things,' he said instead. 'Alcohol comes in so many varieties, how can one choose?'

'Alcohol,' Enjolras repeated.

Grantaire shrugged. 'What do you want me to say, that the world can be a better place if we make it so? Honour and courage are all very well, but given the shitpile that is the earth I don't see the point.'

'Does the future terrify you that much? Is it so _inconceivable_ that caring about things might actually help?'

'Yes, it's inconceivable, because it doesn't.' Nerves had been touched on both sides now. 'Maybe you don't get it, because you're smart and rich and attractive and you have everything handed to you on a fucking platter, but caring about stuff fucks it up. It's easy to care about things when they're not the only things you have.'

'I'm trying to make things better.' Enjolras's jaw was set and his eyes were glaring like lasers. 'Don't you understand?'

'Oh, I understand,' Grantaire's face was heating up. They were standing just a foot apart. It didn't help that Enjolras was taller than he was. 'You worry about the big picture because you _can._ D'you ever wonder why everyone doesn't always give shits about climate change or deforestation? It's because we're too exhausted with the crap in our own lives to give a fuck about anything else. Caring about politics, representation of LGBT communities in the media, that's a luxury you have. It's not a bad thing, fuck knows we need a leader who's environmentally conscious, but for one fucking second can you stop acting like we're all such terrible people for wanting to concentrate on our own shit during say, a zombie apocalypse?!'

Enjolras's gaze no longer burnt. He had abandoned one extreme for another, glowering with enough ice to freeze Grantaire where he stood. 'I'm _not_ the leader,' he said, his voice shaking. 'I'm not. We're a _democracy.'_

'Yeah, unless we're coming up with a plan, or making a decision of any kind,' Grantaire folded his arms across his chest, suddenly taller than he had been a moment ago. 'You're good at it, but you _are_ a leader.'

'I'm sorry you feel that way.' Enjolras's features had taken on a wooden quality. It was unclear whether he thought Grantaire was taking the mickey, or was serious and disagreed with him. After a long pause that dragged on for hours, he backed away, closing the door behind him.

Enjolras had retreated, and yet, as Grantaire sat down to have another look at the painted wall, neither had emerged the victor. 

 

'Oh my god, look at Apollo.' Éponine lowered her voice as Enjolras entered the  rec room. 'Who peed in his cornflakes?'

Cosette giggled, and dipped her head quickly so that nobody would see. 'Perhaps somebody dissed justice.'

Éponine smiled reluctantly. She wasn't sitting with the other girl by choice -Cosette had seen the ragged clothes belonging to Azelma's Barbie and offered to turn the handkerchief into a proper outfit. Ordinarily shy and quiet, Azelma had taken a shine to Cosette, who had with another scrap of material created a mini halter-neck top to go with the billowy hanky skirt. 'I used to make doll clothes all the time,' Cosette had explained, to a delighted Azelma and a slightly disgruntled Éponine. 'Out of anything. Tissues, sweet wrappers, even tin foil once. I was the class weirdo.'

When Éponine was that age, she'd had all the Barbie clothes she could want, and more. She could remember it, the sticky bedroom full of cheap plastic toys designed to buy the children's silence and give some façade of normalcy. It was only when she was older that Éponine realised it wasn't normal to go on impromptu car drives in the middle of the night, or be so afraid of her father's friends that she'd wet the bed rather than leave the safety of her room to go to the toilet.

She wanted to bring this up, throw it in Cosette's face, Cosette who had always been loved unconditionally even in the worst of times. Only she couldn't, it wouldn't be fair, and the last thing she wanted in this world was Cosette's pity.

Across the room, Enjolras was ruining what had been a budding moment between Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Neither seemed to mind terribly, Courfeyrac was bent-double laughing at something Enjolras had said, while Combeferre retained an air of quiet amusement.

Then Enjolras's head snapped up, and Éponine followed the line of his gaze to where Grantaire had appeared in the doorway. He was finally wearing his own clothes, she saw, not the ones he had been given. There were flecks of paint all over his hands and in his hair, implying some sort of tussle with a deceased artist.

'Hey, Grantaire,' Cosette raised her voice to call him over. She saw Éponine's look, and added, 'He's all right, you know.'

Remembering Cosette's initial impression of Grantaire, Éponine couldn't help an inward eye-roll. It was only natural that a girl who was a Disney animation come to life would strive to see the best in people, and ultimately overcome her prejudices to befriend Grantaire.

'Evening, ladies,' the guy in question sat on the floor beside them, his expression settling into one of lazy companionability. 'What does the apocalypse mean to _you?_ '

'You have paint on your face,' said Cosette unnecessarily, and then, like she could read Éponine's mind, 'did you just kill Banksy? 'Cause if you did I might have to kill you, on a matter of principle, of course.'

'Nah, it's for the aesthetic.' Stretching out in the immense way that only boys and cats can, he leant back on his elbows. In that position he was immensely kickable, but Éponine restrained the urge.

'Can I help you?' she asked, not bothering to fake friendliness.

'Very much. Glad you asked.' Grantaire was in a curiously ambivalent mood. He might not be high on Éponine's list of favourite people, but at least if he annoyed her it would be because he was being annoying. Jealousy wouldn't enter into it.

'I'm bored.' Azelma materialized and plonked herself down beside her sister. 'There aren't any good books.'

'Maybe I could find a photography book with pictures in it?' Cosette suggested.

'She's _nine,_ ' said Éponine, ruffled. 'She can read in English and Italian.'

'I thought some photos might be more interesting to read than,' Cosette titled her head to head the row of spines. ' _Unpicking Epistemology_.'

'How does that sound?' Éponine asked her sister. Azelma shrugged.

'I'll take her,' Cosette offered, before Éponine could get another word in. Azelma's face brightened, so delighted that Éponine dared not disagree.

'All right. You two have fun.' She had to satisfy herself with glaring at Grantaire, who she was now stuck with.

'She likes you,' he commented, as Cosette led Azelma from the room. 'There are worse friends to have.'

 _Such as you, you mean?_ 'Forgive me if I don't braid my hair with flowers.'

'Marius seemed like the friendship-bracelet type.'

Her patience, already thin, snapped like a twig. 'Can you fucking _not?'_

'OK,' Grantaire held up his hands. 'That was too far. And for the record, I'm not saying you should _date_ Cosette -  just maybe get to know her. Girl's tougher than she looks. Though if you _want_ to date her, by all means go ahead.'

'Not my type.'

'Not your type as in a girl, or not your type as in smiles too often?'

'The second one.' She had no idea how she was having this conversation with Grantaire, only that she was and it wasn't quite as bad as she'd expected. 'What did you say to Apollo? He looks ready to murder someone, and unfortunately, Javert's not around.'

With all the shit he'd given her about Marius, Grantaire really should have seen this coming. '"Apollo", really?'

'What, like it doesn't fit? ...Did you sneak up on him or something? You know he has hearing problems?'

'It does, I didn't, I do.' Éponine could read people well enough to sense the tension beneath his amiability. 'On a different note, of a much nicer song - at least half the teachers' offices have booze in. Want to come and search?'

She really shouldn't drink, not when she was in constant danger and had siblings to protect. She shouldn't drink with _Grantaire_ , who she didn't like very much, yet might just be as miserable as she felt.

'All right,' she shrugged, not needing to fake her reluctance. 'Dibs on first pick.'

 

The first two offices they looked in belonged to the sort of cheerful, optimistic teachers who tried to be friends with students and ignored the fact that their workplace was Hell incarnated. The only discovery of note was a plastic pigeon perched on the windowsill, which Éponine pocketed for Azelma. Grantaire's haul was less interesting; a small bottle of anti-depressants, a framed photo of a ginger cat and a mug that said "Death By Powerpoint #JustTeacherThings".

The third office was depressing without being entertaining. Instead of photos or trinkets there were just huge piles of papers. The fourth was the first one with booze.

'It's a liqueur,' Grantaire said disgustedly, holding it up. 'Who drinks _liqueurs_ at college?'

'Somebody. Oh my god, look at this.' Éponine held up a sheet of paper. ' _Love letters_. To a certain Mr Queen.'

'I think he's a physics teacher,' Grantaire took the offered letter eagerly and scanned it. 'Oh _my_ god. We could publish this.'

'We _should_ publish this.' Éponine unscrewed the cap off the bottle and took a swig. 'It's our duty to mankind.'

'Some used the apocalypse to become great - not naming names, we know who they are. But we? We squandered the time away in the best possible pursuit, collecting and piecing together an epic tale of forbidden love between a physics and a chemistry teacher.'

'Tireless historians working to salvage lost documents,' Éponine offered him the liqueur, a wry smile creeping across her face. Grantaire sipped it and contorted his face in disgust. Worse booze than this had passed his lips, not that the knowledge made this particular drink any more appealing.

He watched Éponine rifle through the other letters, reading the best sections aloud and steadily rising in his esteem. She was better than any skeptical comedian he knew of and her laugh cut razor-sharp, the antithesis of the clean-cut do-gooders he was sick of. 'God, this is terrible. Someone _has_ to have vodka, it's only a matter of looking hard enough.'

As he'd hoped, she heard the apology and accepted it with a rueful grin that implied she was already regretting doing so. 

'Why not?' Clutching the love letters in one hand, Éponine picked herself off the floor and offered Grantaire a hand up. 'Let's go and have the lamest party the world has ever seen.'

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, like the last one, is horrifically late. Combination of not having enough time, and then needing to get it proofread. 
> 
> Hopefully I will be able to get back to some sort of regular schedule, for the sake of my own sanity rather than anyone else's.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was an idiot to have stayed this long, to have tried to please and annoy and surprise Enjolras, who at the end of the day would always be an angel, the kind that burnt at every touch and blazed too brightly for someone like Grantaire to gaze upon.

It became clear when Éponine entered the library that she hadn't been missed. Cosette and Azelma were sitting on the floor with their backs to the wall, poring over a photography journal and discussing it quietly. Their heads were almost touching - in that position they might have been sisters, or more likely, cousins: the Irish and Italian branches of a family. Éponine felt a stab of jealousy. Was Cosette trying to steal _every_ good thing in her life?

‘Oh, hi,’ the girl in question looked up, a ready smile on her freckled face. Her arm was wrapped around Azelma's shoulders and Éponine's sister had leaned into the embrace. 'I wondered where you got to. Grantaire's company lost its appeal?'

'You make it sound like it had appeal to start with.' She wasn't quite drunk - Éponine could hold her liquor fine, thank you - but was in a good enough mood not to get annoyed by Cosette's playful comment. 'What did you guys find?'

‘A bird book.’ Azelma held it up. ‘It’s about how to find birds to take pictures of them without scaring them away.’

‘She was telling me about the bird’s nest in your garden. We should get her and Bossuet together, he's the nature guru.'

It took Éponine a second to remember which garden Cosette was referring to. The one with the bird’s nest had never really been theirs, it had belonged to Patron Minette. When he couldn't find childcare, their father had a tendency to bring his kids with him where he went. Gavroche was usually OK: he understood, though regrettably did not fear, Montparnasse. Azelma was another matter. More than once, Éponine had bunked college to avoid leaving her sister at his house.

‘It’s getting late,’ she said automatically, nodding at the library clock. The device had ceased to work around three o'clock, but the sky outside the tiny windows was dark enough to prove her point.

‘I’ll walk with you.’ Cosette helped Azelma to her feet. As they left the library, she hung back to address Éponine without the younger girl hearing.

‘Don't snap at me, but. You need help with them. Everyone's worried sick about each other, and you've got it worse than most. You need the time off. And I know it’s sexist for the two girls to be doing all the babysitting, but I’m happy to help if I can.’

Éponine didn’t mention that her dull hair and shadowed eyes were not direct results of the apocalypse but merely side effects of her wonderful life. She watched Cosette out of the corner of her eyes, kind and pretty and so earnest it hurt. The proper thing to do now was to argue, insist – as she had done days before, to Courfeyrac – that she was doing fine, that she needed no assistance. Only it had been so nice to forget about Azelma momentarily, to drink with Grantaire as if they were friends. She could have that again, all it would take was the unthinkable act of asking for assistance. She had to say something _now,_ they were almost at the third floor and she was running out of time.

‘OK,’ she said, and the width of Cosette’s eyes would have put dinner plates to shame. ‘If like, you’re sure.’

‘The others will want to help, too. Joly is good with kids, and I feel Enjolras would be awful in a hilarious way, so perhaps that’s something we should try.’

‘Hey, kid!' Éponine called to Azelma, who waited for them at the top of the stairs. ‘How passionate are you about justice?'

Azelma gave a confused giggle, unsure if it was a serious question, and at the same time Cosette let out a snort.

‘Well, this is my room. See you tomorrow?’

Éponine shrugged. Before she could say anything else, Cosette had reached out, grabbed her hand, squeezed it and let go all in one movement. It was a friendly gesture, what girls did all the time. 

Cosette's door was closing and Éponine started down the corridor with Azelma by her side. People showed physical affection all the time. Marius was a hugger, and from the amount of PDA he and his girlfriend had shown it was natural that Cosette would do something like that. It wasn't like it bothered Éponine or anything. She'd touched much grosser people than Cosette.

She might even have convinced herself that it meant absolutely nothing, if she hadn't been able to feel her pulse racing as she walked.

 

Following their most heated argument yet, a rocky calm had been established between Grantaire and Enjolras. They were not speaking, not making eye contact and generally not interacting at all, but nor were they leaving a room when the other one entered. It was a truce of sorts, one that thankfully needed no negotiation.

Yet it was still not without hiccups. Most of the others had not only noticed the stillness between them but felt obliged to comment on it. Bahorel and Courfeyrac were trying to outdo each other in the tasteless joke department, to the point where Grantaire was avidly avoiding them as well.

He was relieved to, the following afternoon, be dispatched to dismantle chairs with Joly and Bossuet for company. The idea behind the task was that once freed of the seats, the metal frames could be put to good use. None of them were very sure what this good use was, but neither were they going to complain at being asked to break stuff.

The activity was suggested by Combeferre, as he judged most accurately that people were getting bored enough to be destructive, and if that was going to happen they might as well trash things in an orderly and productive fashion.

So far no complaints had been issued in response to this instruction. Courfeyrac and Éponine were taking computers apart with great zeal, Feuilly was watching Azelma and attempting to watch Gavroche, Cosette and Bahorel set up a target range in an empty classroom and were practicing knife and axe-throwing, and Enjolras and Combeferre had disappeared - doubtless going, Courfeyrac said, to play Battleship on pieces of scrap paper.

'This is my calling,' Bossuet declared solemnly, as they set about tackling the first lot of chairs. 'I break _everything_. Glasses, lamps, bones… both my own and other people's.'

‘He’s maybe the only person on the planet to have broken a Nokia brick,’ Joly added proudly, looking an arm around his boyfriend’s shoulders and planting a peck on his cheek.

‘I just dropped it,’ Bossuet pulled Joly closer. ‘Out of a window. Six storeys up.’

‘Bricks have endured worse and lived to tell the tale,’ Grantaire pointed out. ‘Maybe yours was cursed with fragility.’

‘If anything’s cursed, it’s me.’ Bossuet said it so cheerfully it hardly sounded self-deprecating. ‘I was the only person to lose more than Enjolras at poker.’

‘And he was only losing because he doesn’t understand it and hates it on a moral level,’ Joly interjected, hoisting a chair up onto his lap and getting started. ‘For someone who’s not religious, he has a very clear-cut definition of sin. Although he despises capitalist greed more than the unholy, he was destined to be a martyr from the moment his baby self gazed upon the world for the first time.’ The last screw popped out, and the metal legs fell to the floor with a clang.

‘It’s easy to find Enjolras’s personal definition of sin.’ Grantaire was attempting to break his chair using force in place of a screwdriver. It wasn’t going well. ‘You only have to look at me, my listed hobbies and affiliations. Drinking: check, gambling: check, unreliably sourced drugs: check.’

Joly and Bossuet exchanged a glance loaded with the mutual understanding that came from being in a healthy relationship.

‘Enjolras does seem particularly...righteous, at present,’ Bossuet said, with the air of one choosing his words with great care. ‘He’s always been honourable, otherwise he wouldn’t be himself, but it seems to have gone to new heights recently.’

‘Was that meant to be a pun based off Javert’s recent appropriation of the Shard?’ Grantaire gave up on the brute force approach and accepted a screwdriver. The news about the Shard had been all over TV; supposedly it was a good thing that Javert was right in the centre of town.

'No it wasn't, but now you mention it, it could be.'

‘What he intended to say and never got round to was that if you’ve been deliberately antagonizing Enjolras, we’d appreciate you stopping.’ Joly's cheer took the sting from the words.  ‘It’s making him worse than usual. Though should you yourself be drawn by the frankly disgusting amount of sexual tension between the two of you, just snog him and get it over with.’

‘It might be a British stereotype, but I’d forgotten snog was even a word,’ said Grantaire. ‘We’re aren’t in Year 7.'

‘Let us not be shackled by the confines of age!’ Joly exclaimed; happily unaware that he too was drifting away from his original point. It was hard to believe that only a moment ago he was instructing Grantaire to end their alleged misery by kissing their leader. ‘I still think they should have those soft play areas for adults, with slides and ballpits and everything.'

'Better not to ask,' Bossuet advised Grantaire. 'Though you have to admit, that would be cool.'

Distracted yet again, Joly began to prattle about how they could use the tops of tables to construct ramps down the stairs, which they could then ride down in wheeled computer chairs. Such was the danger and frank ridiculousness of the idea that Grantaire was able to contemplate in peace the absurd suggestion that Enjolras was in possession of human emotions other than irritation, frustration and plain anger. Clearly Joly was one of those types that saw the love in every hate relationship. That wasn’t the problem. More worrying was Bossuet’s failure to contradict the offered statement; Bossuet who was the more level-headed of the two.

Admittedly, while sharing drinks with Éponine Grantaire had shared a little more than was prudent. Neither had reached an outrageous or even comfortable level of intoxication, it was the experience itself that created the camaraderie. Éponine had spoken about Marius, and then to an even greater length his girlfriend, towards whom her feelings were becoming most uncomfortably ambivalent.

‘But of course, you know,’ she’d said, midway through a complaint about people’s well-rounded middle-class upbringings. ‘You like Enjolras. That must be a picnic.'

In place of denying the allegation, he had just shrugged. ‘Guy’s well, you know. I never thought social justice could be hot until he waltzed in.’

‘That guy could do anything and look like a model,’ she grumbled. ‘Though I’d pay good money to see him on _Total Wipeout_.’

‘God. _Please_. After that I could die happy. I feel like Courfeyrac would be good at it.’

‘Nah, he’d be the pants one who adores the whole thing. Bahorel, on the other hand...’

‘More promising,’ Grantaire allowed. From there, the conversation drifted off into a discussion in which they placed their friends in different TV shows; the highlight of which was _America’s Next Top Model._

 

Together with Joly and Bossuet, Grantaire dismembered multiple chairs and carried the frames downstairs. Any purpose was still eluding them, so until they could come up with something they were stacking them in a corner of the canteen. Nearly everyone was on the ground floor; it turned out that Enjolras and Combeferre were not playing Battleship, but dismantling bookshelves and adding them to the barricades.

Amid all the chaos, Gavroche came sprinting down the stairs, an expression of pure delight etched upon his face.

'There are government vans outside!' he shouted, jumping the last three steps. 'The recruitment ones! Do we have anything I can throw?'

‘Not to hand.’ The edge of Courfeyrac's mouth curled upward, his gaze sliding across the room to fix upon their leader.

‘Were they stopping by the college?’ Enjolras asked, and Gavroche nodded.

'Didn't look too interested in us, they were having a piss.'

'And you're sure it was a government vehicle?' Combeferre checked.

Gavroche huffed. 'Come see for yourself.'

The race to the fifth floor left Grantaire's lungs burning. He had never seen a group of people climb stairs so quickly. Courfeyrac was first to the top, followed by Cosette and then Bahorel. Grantaire himself was in the slower half, beating only Joly.

The view from the tall window was worth the climb. Gavroche hadn't exaggerated the situation, if anything he had downplayed it. Two vehicles, a van and a covered truck, were idling by the curb, identifiable from the huge logos stamped on the sides. A driver from each were milling around, smoking and relieving themselves on the brick wall that bordered the college. The building itself had attracted minimal attention, drawing only the shortest of glances.

'Doesn't look like they care we're here,' Courfeyrac remarked.

'Good thing too, or they might be trying to cart us off to camp,' said Enjolras. He took Javert's false hospitality so personally that Grantaire couldn't resist.

'We don't _know_ the camps are as horrific as you say. For all we know they could be offering free pedicures and second helpings of ice cream.'

Enjolras took the bait, proving that all their conversations were obeying a vicious pattern: Grantaire antagonizing and him falling for it. 'Have you _heard_ Javert's speeches? His policies? How is it that you think he could do _anything_ that benefits anyone other than himself?'

Courfeyrac made an 'oooh' sound, and Éponine folded her arms, interested by the conflict.

'We haven't seen anything to suggest the camps themselves are inherently evil,' Grantaire argued obstinately. 'Javert might be a bigoted bastard, but he does want Britain to survive. If it doesn't, who is he going to lord over? He might have to drive his own car and do his own laundry.'

'Guy's got a point,' said Bahorel thoughtfully, and Enjolras bristled.

'We don't need to go crawling to him to survive,' he insisted. 'Javert wants control. Why should we give it to him?'

'I don't see how _this_ is any different.' They weren't arguing about Javert now, not really. 'Here we follow you; there we follow him. At least he knows what's going on.'

There was a sharp intake of breath around them, and it hit Grantaire that he had finally gone too far, overstepped that invisible line that he'd unconsciously been keeping to.

'If you want to go, be my guest,' Enjolras snapped.

'Think I will.' Seized by a sudden insanity, he marched off down the corridor and towards the stairs, hands clenched by his sides, painfully aware of everybody's eyes on him. There was a slight scuffle, and Bossuet, Cosette and Éponine appeared in pursuit.

 _'Jesus,_ R.' The nickname was Éponine's doing. It was, he realised, a sort of stamp of approval. 'I know Aslan's an easy target, but maybe lay off?'

'You aren't seriously thinking of going?' Bossuet chipped in.

'Please don't,' said Cosette, laying a tentative hand on his arm. It wasn't an easy task to do while jogging downstairs. 'We don't _know_ the camps are evil, but we don't know they aren't either.'

'I'm going to.' Grantaire had very little idea of what he was doing, only that he wasn't going to back down and that the college was no longer big enough to hide himself in. He was an idiot to have stayed this long, to have tried to please and annoy and surprise Enjolras, who at the end of the day would always be an angel, the kind that burnt at every touch and blazed too brightly for someone like Grantaire to gaze upon. 

Bossuet and Cosette were still voicing objections, matching him step-for-step. Éponine kept the pace, though she had nothing to contribute. Perhaps she recognised a hopeless case when she saw it, or maybe she understood his need for space. She was the sort who would. 

On the ground floor at last, he stopped short of the main entrance, turning to face them. 'I'm going, OK? You can't stop me, and if you don't want to tag along _with_ me then don't come outside. I'll tell them the college is deserted, and I was the only one.'

'Grantaire, _please.'_

'Wait till you calm down, it's not worth it.'

'That's a fucking stupid idea and you know it.'

'I'll miss you too.' And then he was backing away and he was out of the door and the weak March sun was shining on his skin. The wall was smaller and easier to climb than he remembered, or maybe it only appeared that way because it was the one obstacle left between him and the government. He knew the others must be watching from the window, wondering if he would actually go through with it. The thought of Enjolras's frowning face strengthened his resolve, and he swung both legs over and landed lightly on the other side, five yards from one of the drivers.

'Oi! What're you doin' here?' The man had zipped up his fly, drawn a gun and was backing away in alarm. It took Grantaire a second to realise two things: that they thought he was a zombie, and that whatever bullets to the brain did to the undead, they would certainly finish him off.

'It's OK!' he shouted, raising his arms in surrender. 'I'm alive. Not a zombie, I swear, see, I'm talking!

'We haven't got food neither,' the driver said, his semi-automatic still trained on Grantaire. 'You teenagers think you can have everything your way. Clear out of here.'

The idea that he might be intending to rob the trucks while completely unarmed was laughable, only the guards didn't seem to think so.

'I want to go to a camp,' he called, approaching cautiously. 'You're recruiters, aren't you? I want to come.'

He could imagine how he looked to them, sallow and skinny with nothing but the clothes on his back. Out in the open without a weapon like a fool, hoping the worst decision of his life wasn't about to backfire. Not dead, no, but heading that way if they didn't accept him.

'You want to come to camp?' the taller man, who had refrained from drawing his weapon, frowned. 'What d'you wanna do that for?'

'Food. Company. Wandering around by yourself is enough to drive you crazy.'

'We got room,' the shorter man admitted, very slowly lowering the gun. He didn't sound terribly enthusiastic about it. 'Come on, then.'

Breathing a sigh of relief, Grantaire approached the trucks. He should have grabbed a sweater before storming out, goosebumps were already rising on his arms. The taller man directed him to the second truck, lifting open a flap in the back to let him in. Over his shoulder, Grantaire caught a glimpse of Corinth Park, the two ugly yellow blocks rising up against the powder blue sky. Then the driver was giving him a hand up and he was inside, in the dark, and it was too late to turn back even if he wanted to.

 

Shortly after the trucks had departed, Gavroche walked out into the college's front yard, nibbling thoughtfully on a precious cereal bar looted from somebody's office. Like everyone else, he had been surprised to see Grantaire go through with leaving. Then again, nobody had ever got under Enjolras's skin like that. Gavroche was all for annoying important people, he just found it irritating that somebody that cool had gone and walked out on them.

The others were unhappy for different reasons. Combeferre, Enjolras and Feuilly were all troubled by the group dynamic that had actively driven one of its members towards Javert. Cosette, Bossuet and Joly were openly upset, Bahorel and Courfeyrac more ambiguous. Éponine was determinedly not upset in the way that meant that she was. Give them all a couple of days, Gavroche reasoned, and they'd have forgotten Grantaire existed.

Clambering up the gate, he found a perch on the top and sat there, enjoying the view of the cluttered street. The brick walls were too high and sheer for him to climb, and the reinforcements on the gate provided handholds. Éponine would have a fit if she saw him now, sitting in plain sight, but the cold fresh air was so nice he couldn't bring himself to leave. Besides, she knew he was good at climbing. More than once he'd had to scale a drainpipe to open a window or something similar.

Gavroche craned his neck to look down the street in the direction the trucks had gone. One of them must have had mud on its tyres, for there was a clear track, imprinted on the tarmac. It was fresh enough to have come from the truck, and would lead to the nearest camp.

 _Curiosity killed the cat_ , Gavroche's mother would say whenever she found him or Éponine poking around in her things. At the time he'd wanted to sit her down and rattle off all the times being curious had paid off, teach her a lesson for a change. Now might be one of those occasions. He was fast and strong, and if he could tell Enjolras where a camp was and what it was like he could hardly be criticized for it. It was a mark of how sick he was of Corinth Park that he'd thought of a reasonable explanation for leaving it.

Still clutching the cereal bar in one sweaty hand, Gavroche descended from the other side of the gate and set off down the road, jogging comfortably after the tyre tracks. Unlike Grantaire, he didn't stop to look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to be back on some sort of regular schedule. Hurrah for sanity.
> 
> When originally planning, I estimated this would run to fifteen full chapters and an epilogue, so sixteen installments in total. So far I've been able to stick to that, meaning that this, as chapter eight, is the halfway point. I can also say with some confidence that the final thing should be around 60k, as of this chapter I've got 30k so far.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'No, it's just, my friends. The people I was with, before. They would have loved you. Condemning society is maybe their favourite thing, apart from coming up with ways to fix it.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mention of child abuse

 

Grantaire knew he'd made a mistake from the moment he was inside the truck. The interior had no benches or seats; everyone was huddled on the floor and round the edges. He only got a short glance of the other inhabitants - about twenty-five scared, scruffy people crouched together - before the canvas flap swung closed, leaving him in the dark. Pitiful as the sight had been, this was much worse. Rising above the low growl of the motor, as the truck lurched and began to move, was a sharp, ragged breathing from all sides. The air was hot and stale, stinking of stranger's breath, and the knowledge that he was in close proximity to so many people made Grantaire desperately claustrophobic. He hunched in upon himself, tucking his knees to his chest and bracing his back against the wall, making his body as small as possible.

Trapped as he was, the journey stretched on indefinitely. Occasionally the truck would slow down, and he would listen hopefully, only to be disappointed when it sped up again. The road surface was for the most part smooth, though a mixture of speed bumps and potholes kept things interesting. Grantaire soon learned how to lean into each lurch to avoid toppling sideways. The first speed bump had resulted in a collision of sweaty, sticky skin as he'd fallen into his neighbour's lap. Thankfully it was easy to get the hang of, so that soon he was swaying with the rest.

Conducting a mental assessment, he decided that his current predicament would only be a nightmare if he thought of it as one. After all, he was free now. If the camp wasn't satisfactory, why shouldn't he go and do whatever he wanted? He could tour the country, visit the beach and the Lake District and maybe find some old restored castle to hole up in. He could do all nature of frivolous things. Britain was open to him, and yet it still felt like he'd left everything that mattered back at a shitty college with windows that were too small.

 

Unable to measure time in the dark without a watch, he hadn't a clue how long the journey took, only that it felt like for-fucking-ever. When at last the truck lurched to a halt, he was relieved, yet moments later it set off again, at a slower pace. A minute or so later it had stopped again, and the engine cut out.

Unable to hear or see anything of note, his companions began to shift and whisper amongst themselves. Then somebody opened up the back of the truck and the dim light that spilled in was enough to dazzle them. Grantaire was one of the first to recover, and as he was closest to the exit, the first one out. His legs had fallen asleep during the trip and his feet buzzed with pins-and-needles as they made contact with the jarringly solid ground.

He was in a wide compound, surrounded on each side with a six-metre chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. To his right, a road led to a tall gate about eight hundred yards away, and one his left a series of low buildings were clustered close together. Each one had been painted a dull white, which in the dusk light had faded to a soft grey.

The other, smaller van had already been unloaded, and a procession of shivering, dirty people were following their driver, while an armed guard took up the rear.

The occupants of Grantaire's van were no more inspiring. They had gathered in a little semicircle behind him, examining the driveway with little enthusiasm. Once they were all outside, they followed the example set by the others and were led in an odd parade to the nearest of the low buildings. Inside, an unsmiling group of officials sorted them into groups of six. Apart from keeping families together, the selections appeared to be completely random. There were no groups of relatives in Grantaire's group - indeed, he looked to be the eldest, with the possible exception of a tall Latina girl.

The process of becoming camp citizens was a long and arduous one. After being assigned groups, half a dozen forms required their attention, on which they had to state their name, date of birth, pre-apocalypse address and any health issues they might have. Grantaire lied about everything but his name and the condition of his vital organs. Supposing the apocalypse was to finish, he'd rather Javert not to have the means to properly identify him. 

Lastly came a practical medical examination. New arrivals were required to spend twenty-four hours in quarantine while their test results were analyzed.

'Everyone in this camp is clean,' a nurse told Grantaire, taking a small blood sample and labeling the bottle with his name and group number. 'We're planning to keep it that way.'

The quarantine barracks were plain and simple: two dozen cabin-like rooms with six bunks and an en suite bathroom. As the first through the door, Grantaire was afforded first bunk pick. He chose at random, not realizing the one he'd gone for gave him a clear view of the brightly coloured posters tacked to the opposite wall. Glaring and garish, they were an extension of Javert's broadcasts, singing the praises of the noble support given by Britain's Prime Minister in such times of hardship.

Confined as he was to the room for twenty-four hours, Grantaire read each of the posters several times. They all more or less said the same thing, a message along the lines of: "Zombies are bad. Javert is good. Everything is going to be OK."

There was also one rather threatening poster explaining the process should anyone test positive for the zombie virus. Though the wording was strenuously diplomatic, it was abundantly clear that anyone who was infected would be tossed out into the street.

Annoyingly, the people with whom he'd just been locked were taking the opportunity to introduce themselves. There was the girl around his age, two sixteen-year-old females and two younger boys. Their names floated through Grantaire's head without leaving the slightest impression, with the exception of the older girl, who was called Musichetta.

She, too, appeared somewhat relieved that there was somebody else older than sixteen with whom to converse. Through a combination of eye contact and odd jerks of the head, Grantaire invited her to come sit on his bunk and grumble. She was very pretty, with a wide, heart-shaped face and hair that fell to her waist. The sort of person who'd had a social life before Britain went to shit, but then again, looks didn't always equal popularity. If Feuilly's stories were to be believed, Enjolras had adopted a hermit lifestyle at university, and he must have looked like a model since puberty.

'I didn't even know there were camps 'till I saw the van,' Musichetta told Grantaire, moving herself into a comfortable position so she could lean her back against the wall. 'I was by myself, so thought, why not? Maybe I'll get to eat something that isn't stale. What about you?'

'I was with people. Now I'm not.'

'Friends?'

'Yeah, I suppose so. 'Allies'might be a better term. They didn't want me for my jokes.'

'What did they want you for?' She didn't make an effort to soften the question.

'Nothing, really. That wasn't the point. It was more about everyone having a fair shot at surviving, or some shit like that.'

'Sounds nice.' Musichetta shrugged. ' _My_ parents kicked me out when they thought I'd become a stripper. Because having a sex life equals stripping, apparently, and god forbid I tarnish their public image.'

'Are they famous or something?'

'They _were_. Not that that was much better. They were the sort to think, _Hey, I'll do a good deed and adopt an underprivileged child! Only wait, we have to have some attractive kids, so let's have some biological ones that happen to be better in every way!_ And now they're just washed up wannabes with broken moral compasses.' She shrugged again. 'Sorry. It sounds like you have all the problems you need, without - '

'It's fine,' Grantaire interrupted. He was smiling very slightly; Musichetta's expression grew suspicious.

'What? Is it _funny?'_

'No, it's just, my friends. The people I was with, before. They would have loved you. Condemning society is maybe their favourite thing, apart from coming up with ways to fix it.'

Musichetta relaxed, and she gave a small chuckle. Before she could respond in full, one of the sixteen-year-olds approached them and cleared her throat. She was the shorter one, with twin brown pigtails that changed to bleached blonde halfway down. Hovering just behind her was a redheaded girl in a violently pink blouse.

'Excuse me,' Plaits muttered shyly. An AS student, Grantaire assumed. Wait, no, she could be GCSE if she was one of the oldest in her year. 'Um, what are your astrological signs?'

'My what?' Grantaire asked, at the same time as Musichetta's, 'My _star sign?_ Why do you care?'

'She's a witch,' Pink Shirt said importantly. Definitely GCSE students, he concluded. How they hadn't yet been eaten alive was anyone's guess.

'Hey, can she charm the zombies to go away?' Musichetta rolled her eyes, and for a moment she looked a good deal like Éponine, if Éponine smiled more. When sarcasm didn't succeed in banishing the girls, she sighed. 'I'm a Libra.'

 'Aries,' Grantaire said.

Plaits hummed to herself, and retreated. Pink Shirt followed, and they could hear her piercing whisper. ' _Three_ Libras… won't that tip the scales?'

'There's only one astrology fact I care about,' said Musichetta, getting up off the bunk and stretching thoughtfully. 'And that's the pointless knowledge that Leonardo Dicaprio is neither a Leo nor a Capricorn. He's a fucking Scorpio.' Shaking her head, she marched off to the bathroom.

 

Éponine didn't notice her brother was missing until it was nearly too late. She wasn't able to keep a perpetual eye on him as she was Azelma. Gavroche was old and capable enough to take care of himself. Or so she'd thought. All the drama of Grantaire's departure had meant she'd had to comfort her sister by lying through her teeth that R was gonna be all right, he was an idiot who could take care of himself. Then she was stuck on dinner duty, so it was only when they sat down to eat that she realised her brother wasn't present, and Gavroche _never_ missed a meal.

'Fuck.' She stared down the table, dropping her fistful of cutlery that hit the table with a shrill _clang._ 'Has anyone seen Gavroche?'

'Do we usually?' inquired Courfeyrac flippantly, and Combeferre put a hand on his shoulder to shut him up.

'I haven't seen him since this afternoon. Has anyone?'

Éponine looked around hopefully, but nobody spoke up. The only sound in the room was her heart thumping and her whispered profanities.

'OK, we know he wasn't in the camp trucks,' Enjolras rose and came to stand beside her. 'We saw them go, so if he left it was after that.'

He made no move to touch or comfort her, as ever his thoughts were on the problem rather than the people. There were times when she'd disliked the way his energy was always directed towards cause not comfort, but just now it was reassuring. She didn't want a hug; she wanted to know where the hell her brother was.

'Could he be hiding anywhere?' Bossuet asked. 'In the college. 'Is it worth looking?'

Éponine shook her head. 'If he was hiding, he would have come out for dinner. You've seen how much that boy eats. If he's not _here_ , it means he's gone.'

'Should we start looking?' Joly set his elbows on the table. 'Out there.'

'No.' Enjolras's voice was cold and immovable. 'Not until we know where he went, and even then it would be risky. I'm not saying we should ignore him, but we'll be no help at all if we go blundering off in the wrong direction.'

'We could look for clues,' Courfeyrac offered. 'He might have left a note, or tracks.'

That was how Éponine found herself crawling over a brick wall in the dark and frantically shining a narrow torch beam up and down the street. Her hopes weren't high. The trucks had left hours ago and Gavroche was hardly the clumsy sort. She couldn't expect to find anything useful.

For the second time that day, she was surprised. Right in the middle of the road was a muddy tyre track, which could only have come from a government vehicle. Her heart leapt, only to plummet once more. Gavroche would have almost definitely seen and followed it, which was in a way good. The bad was that she could no longer sustain any kind of faint fantasy that he might have slipped out for a bit of fresh air and would be back in five minutes, laughing at how worried she was.

Éponine took a couple of steadying breaths. A couple of the others had come outside with her; she couldn't afford to go to pieces now, not in a crisis with an audience. _He was just bored_ , she wanted to shout, _he was just sick of Corinth Park and he wanted to get out. He's twelve years old, for crying out loud. What did I think was going to happen?_

'The tracks - he'll have followed them,' she said, turning to Combeferre who only a minute ago had been standing beside her. Only the face she illuminated belonged not to Combeferre, but to Cosette.

'He must be on foot,' the young woman said, blinking away from the bright glare of the torch that was shining in her eyes. 'We can catch up. There's a car around the corner, Enjolras just told me. Bahorel found it on his last recon mission. It has nearly a full tank of diesel. As an emergency backup.'

'Show me,' Éponine offered her the torch.

Cosette obliged, obediently leading her around the block. The others had mysteriously vanished, hopefully to concoct some form of plan.

Éponine crossed her arms across her chest as she walked, hoping to conserve some warmth. In the rush to get out she'd forgotten to grab a sweater, and London evenings were not the warmest in the world. A few paces ahead, Cosette was swathed in a pale blue hoodie a couple of sizes too big.

Just round the corner, a metallic grey Jeep was parked haphazardly in the opening of an alleyway. The sight was not exactly reassuring. Two of its tyres were deflated, there was a huge gouge in the driver's door and none of the windows had glass in.

'Well, that's perfect,' Éponine said, as Cosette played the light over the ruined vehicle. 'Don't have a spare tyre handy, do you?'

'We're not taking _that._ ' Sounding amused, Cosette stepped sideways, allowing Éponine the view from a different angle. Tucked just behind the four-wheel drive was a tiny Smart car. _It_ was in pristine condition. Any potential thieves or joyriders had evidently turned up their nose at the vehicle. Another time Éponine might have done the same, but Gavroche's safety was at stake and snobbishness was the last indulgence she could afford.

Looking at Cosette expectantly, she raised an eyebrow. 'Keys?'

'Here,' Cosette surrendered them along with the torch. 'Bahorel found them in the ignition. Took them for safekeeping. Can you, uh, drive?'

'Do I have a licence, no. Can I drive a car, yes.' Éponine unlocked the door and slid into the driver's seat. 'Hey,' she said to Cosette, who was climbing in the passengers' side. 'You're not coming.'

'Since when?'

'Fuck no, I'm not endangering Marius's princess because I couldn't keep track of my brother.'

Cosette glowered. It was an annoyingly attractive look for her. 'OK, firstly I'm not anybody's anything, and second, can you please admit that two people would be better than one at this? We might run into zombies, you might need to take a break from driving, a ton of stuff might happen that you need me for.'

'I _need_ you to take care of Azelma.'

'Why, because the others will abandon her? 'Ponine, they're born babysitters. Joly is probably preparing a hideous act of puppetry as we speak.'

There wasn't time to fight over this. Éponine started the engine. 'It's your funeral.'

 

By the time they were released from quarantine and allocated a drafty tent to share, Grantaire and Musichetta were rather well acquainted. He discovered that her parents were ex-movie stars, that she was afraid of bees and that she had an encyclopedic knowledge of bad TV. In return, she'd learned more about his former comrades, or more specifically, Enjolras. ('He sounds like the worst. All that conviction _and_ perfect hair?')

About his other companions, Grantaire knew mercifully little. He'd had to rechristen Pink Shirt 'Bangles' when they were all issued camp clothes: grey cotton jumpsuits and black hoodies. ('Prison drama, anyone?' Musichetta remarked, while cramming handfuls of possessions into her new pockets). 

The tents that everybody slept in were pitched in neat rows behind the buildings. The fenced compound was far larger than Grantaire had initially thought, stretching out to the horizon. There were three shower blocks with toilets dotted around, and a long building where meals were served. Because there were so many people, mealtimes differed from group to group.

On their first day, they were permitted to wander around and get used to their new surroundings. Musichetta and Grantaire accepted daisy chains from Plaits and had an enjoyable time bitching about politics, dog owners and Jeremy Clarkson. Now and again Musichetta's wealthy background was painfully obvious, but for the most part they avoided uncomfortable topics. After a short spell of rest, their newfound peace was disrupted by mandatory work schedules. One of the advantages of government camps, as a poster from the quarantine room had told them, was their self-sufficiency. All the food consumed was grown or raised and cooked onsite It all sounded great until Grantaire, as an unskilled labourer, was assigned field duty: otherwise known as watering and spraying pesticides on a field of potatoes.

It was slow, tedious work, the worst fault of which was the extent to which it failed to distract him. Having made no small number of dubious life choices, he was not thrilled to have a large amount of time to consider them. By his second day of watering, he'd taken to misremembering _High School Musical_ lyrics and singing them under his breath as a way of occupying his brain. More than once he thought he heard somebody saying his name, but when he looked to check nobody was nearby.

The situation resolved itself when, during lunch break he felt a hand lightly brush his forearm and saw a familiar face grinning at him.

 

The trail wasn't an easy one to follow. The further they went, the fainter the muddy imprints became. More than once Cosette had needed to hop out of the car to check they were still heading in the right direction.

Neither girl was especially talkative. There weren't many important issues to discuss and Éponine felt sure she would break out in hives if they had to make small talk. It was easier to keep her eyes fixed on the empty roads and repeat to herself internally that Gavroche was smart, he was going to be OK, he _had_ to be OK.

 

They were not Marius's clothes, and yet they had Marius inside them, cheerfully windswept. 'Grantaire!' he exclaimed, with enthusiasm that implied they'd spoken more than five words to each other in the entirety of their acquaintanceship. 'What are you doing here?'

'Picking potatoes.' And then, tactfully, 'Where the hell did you go? We thought you were dead.'

Marius's face crumpled. 'Oh my god,' he said, 'Cosette - '

'- Is fine. She got back OK.'

'And Éponine?'

'Also good. Everyone is good.'

'Then why are you here?' He frowned. 'If you didn't lose the sixth from…'

'Political differences,' said Grantaire curtly. Musichetta had more or less wheedled the story out of him; and while he could imagine things less pleasant than repeating it (bathing in acid or eating live cockroaches, for instance) he wasn't all that eager to.  

Marius barely seemed to notice the omission. 'This is so weird. Out of all the people, huh? I had to run for it at the mall, then got picked up just around the corner. They saved me, actually. And, er, _persuaded_ me to come.'

The task overseer was glaring; lunch break was almost over. 'Sorry, I should have come sooner,' Marius apologised. 'I wasn't sure it was you. Listen - your dinner is the seven o'clock one, right? We need to talk more, about stuff.'

Grantaire dredged up from his memory the confirmation that yes, his dinner was at seven, and hastily bid farewell. Walking back to his section of the field, he noted how absurd it was that out of everyone he had run into Marius. Then again, he shouldn't complain. There were far worse people on the planet to unexpectedly encounter.

 

The only god the Thénardier family recognised was money and possibly ambition, and so when Éponine thought _please let me find him,_ it was not any deity she appealed to but merely the universe in general. After all the shit she'd put up with surely she must be owed a break. Nor was she asking for much. World peace could go fuck itself, all she was asking was for one twelve-year-old _idiot_ to be all right.

Cosette didn't suggest they stop once, not even when night had truly fallen and the chances of them dying in a zombie-related crash rose considerably. Her eyes too were focused on the short stretch of road illuminated by the car, her hands twisting anxiously in her lap.  It was enough to make Éponine wonder if they would ever turn around, if they wouldn't just keep driving forever until they died of starvation or ran out of fuel. Gavroche might not even have been following the tracks at all. What was to say he hadn't wandered off course, or run into trouble and been forced to take a different path? She had no evidence to suppose he wasn't lying in a gutter somewhere, his bright birdlike eyes turned sightlessly towards the sky. Or, worse - up and moving with no coherent will of his own.

Éponine bit her lip to stop it from trembling and flexed her hands. They had grown stiff, clinging onto the wheel tightly as if it were a buoyancy aid. Speculating about the worst-case scenarios was not the best way to manage this. Unfortunately, they were all she could think of.

 

She almost sobbed in relief when she saw him, amiably sitting by the side of the road and unconcernedly tying his shoelaces. Unable to see the car's inhabitants, he leapt up out of the light cast by the headlamps. She slammed on the brakes and threw her door open without stopping to shut off the engine.

Storming over to her brother, Éponine realised she had nothing to say; there were no words that could accurately express the extent to which he'd terrified her. Even now she couldn't yell, it would only make things worse. He would rather eat slugs than admit it, but Gavroche couldn't stand being yelled at. Though he could endure without complaining light physical abuse, hearing someone raise their voice in spiteful anger disarmed Gavroche in a way that broke Éponine's heart. It was their father's fault for drinking too much, and their mother's for being so callous towards the son she'd never wanted.

'You're grounded,' Éponine told her brother instead, grabbing him into a rough hug, clutching hold of his ratty clothes so tightly her knuckles whitened. He made a muffled objection and she loosened her grip, straightening up and half-dragging him towards the car. ' _So_ grounded. We're gonna have guards outside your door day and night…'

She trailed off. Cosette had moved from the passenger's side to the driver's seat, and was inspecting the controls with a very determined look on her face.

'You're too tired,' the newly appointed chauffeur told Éponine firmly, opening the door slightly so that they could hear one another. 'I can manage.'

Unable to deny her own exhaustion - the fear adrenaline was wearing off, to be replaced by sheer relief - Éponine still stood firm, clinging onto Gavroche with one arm as though fearing he'd make a run for it. 'Have _you_ ever driven before?'

'Not exactly,' Cosette allowed. 'But I watched you on the way, and it's not like there's any traffic. I'll go slowly. Come on, you need the sleep.'

Too tired to argue, Éponine got in the passenger side, instructing Gavroche to sit in her lap. Pulling the seatbelt wide enough to protect both of them, she glanced at Cosette. 'Just try not to kill us, will you?'

'Killing not good. I will make a note of it.'

 

All the way back, Éponine waited for a disaster that didn't happen. Cosette stalled a few times and grazed some bins, but that was it. Gavroche fell asleep at once, sprawled on his sister's lap. There was no doubt that explanations and lectures would be necessary in the future, but just now they were unnecessary. He was OK, he was in one piece and she had him back.

Despite being tired to the bone, Éponine only feigned sleep, her head resting against the window. She didn't want Cosette to know she was watching her, drinking in her do-or-die attitude and the profile silhouette of her delicate features. She faked sleep with even more conviction when Cosette began to sing under her breath, a soft, comforting little tune that made Éponine feel warm and fuzzy and like she was being taken care of.    

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leonardo Dicaprio is in fact a Scorpio, it's very sad. 
> 
> I like to think that what Cosette is singing is A Place Called Home by Kim Richey. 
> 
> Also, a suprise Musichetta! She wasn't originally in the story plan, and honestly it was only at this chapter that I decided to add her. I could write an essay on the way I'm getting other people to mirror Eponine, and Musichetta is yet another mirror - though more to do with their past than their future/relationships.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I just want to ask,' Musichetta said, so quietly he could barely hear her. 'How well do you know Marius? Granted, we all showered together in what was a highly spiritual and traumatic experience, but like. Do you have reasonable grounds to trust him?'

If one were to delve into a little subconscious folder in Grantaire's mind marked 'Marius', it would be to find adoring rambles about Cosette and several photographs of Labrador dogs. This assessment of his character, though perhaps rather unkind, was proven to be accurate as he talked excitedly throughout most of dinner, (a nutritious yet unimaginative combination of bland chicken and mashed potatoes that would have horrified Bahorel) barely allowing Grantaire or Musichetta a word in edgewise. His repertoire included (but was not by any means limited to) camp etiquette, a longer and more involved story of his narrow escape at the mall, and frequent requests for reassurance that his friends were OK.

The 'more stuff' along with its secretive connotation did not make an appearance. Grantaire assumed one of two things had happened, either Marius had forgotten all about it or they were being too closely monitored in the dining block to be able to speak freely.

The second guess was much closer to home: once the meal was over Marius invited them both for a 'walk', said with such emphasis they couldn't possibly miss his meaning. Dutifully following him outside, they walked along in silence until Marius paused, already apologetic, outside a unisex shower building.

'Um, in here. It's a bit cramped, but I think we can all fit.'

'Whoa, whoa,' Musichetta stopped dead. 'Flattered, but no. Apocalypse does not equal getting off in my book.'

'Not _that._ Just trust me?'

'You make it sound so easy,' Musichetta muttered, though she followed him all the same.

It was empty inside, save for the very last cubicle. The door was closed, the water was on and they could hear faint sounds of off-key singing. Marius glanced around, and directed them into what he claimed was the cleanest one, shutting the door behind him. 

Given that it had been designed for one person to stand still in, the cubicle unsurprisingly did not have ample space for three people. Grantaire was forced to press his back against the grimy wall, and even then he could see more of Marius's nose hairs than he ever wanted to.

Marius himself did not appear hugely distressed by the lack of personal space, merely inquiring if they had anything that would get destroyed by water in their pockets. The implication of the question was not lost on them.

'You're not serious.' Musichetta was clearly regretting her decision to walk into a shower fully clothed with two strangers.

'Unfortunately, I think he is.' Grantaire's pockets were empty. He checked them anyway.

Less than thrilled with the turn events had taken, Musichetta produced handfuls of stuff, which she stashed on the small shelf just above the shower head. Everything was so jumbled together that Grantaire couldn't get a good look. Among the objects he did see were a Blackberry phone, several Scoubidou keyrings and a crumpled photograph.

'Just one last thing,' she said, as Marius reached out to turn the shower on. 'How are we gonna explain how wet our clothes are?'

'Make something up.' He turned the dial, and a jet of icy water cascaded over their heads, immediately soaking their hair and shoulders. All three let out a muffled exclamation of horror at the extremely unpleasant sensation.

'We don't have too long, so let me talk. It has to be in here like this, because they only record audio in the showers, and the water is so loud.' He wasn't lying about that. Marius was speaking in a stage whisper, leaning even closer so they could hear.

'As Enjolras hated the idea of camps so much, I thought I should do some poking around,' he continued, 'and a lot of the vital information is secure but what I've found so far is _incredible.'_

What Enjolras wouldn't give to be here hearing this, Grantaire thought, and then mentally berated himself. The thought of standing next to Enjolras in such close proximity, both of them soaking wet, was not a thought that was wise to entertain.

'Like what?' Musichetta prompted helpfully.

Marius took a deep breath, wound up with a mouthful of water, spluttered and spat it out. 'Eugh. Anyway. So get this: almost _everything_ they've told us about the apocalypse is a false.'

Grantaire's shirt, now it was wet, was starting to stick to what looked like fungus on the cubicle walls. 'Tell us something we don't know.'

'OK. How about this; the virus was released _on purpose._ '

Musichetta sucked in her breath. 'Go on.'

'It's airborne, or something _._ I don't know quite how or why, only that it wasn't an accident. I found one file that was talking about chemical warfare - I guess it could be something to do with that.'

'What do you mean, airborne?'

'I don't know the details, just that it's not always transmitted via bites. So it didn't start the way we thought, because it was released deliberately.'

Grantaire would be willing to suffer the loss of his dignity for Enjolras to be here right now, so he could see the look on his face. He had to be satisfied with Musichetta's goldfish impression; opening and closing her mouth while water ran down her face.

'The _fuck_ ,' she hissed, the moment she regained speech. 'Are you making this up?'

Belatedly, Grantaire remembered that she had only just met Marius, and that she barely knew him. It was not unlike walking up to a stranger at a birthday party and greeting them with _Hi, nice to meet you. By the way, our government is actively trying to kill us. Thought you ought to know_.

Her reaction was fully justified, and yet he didn't share it. The only emotion he felt was a vague irritation that Enjolras had been right, because _of course_ Enjolras was right and he was an idiot for being bored enough to challenge him. In a grim way it made perfect sense for Javert to be twice as evil as they thought he was; the only thing less ridiculous than a zombie apocalypse happening in Britain by chance was a zombie apocalypse happening in Britain on purpose. It must be orchestrated to benefit _someone_ , though Grantaire was going to bet it wasn't the common civilian. 

'Obviously, we have to find out more,' Marius said. Somewhere along the line his cheery goofiness had vanished, to be replaced by a sort of honourable zeal that Grantaire couldn't muster to safe his life. 'I get that this is a lot to take in. At breakfast you can meet Mabeuf, he knows more than I do.'

'Sweet,' Musichetta inclined her head. 'Could we talk to him in a place that isn't the shower?'

'Everywhere is bugged. Tents included.'

'What about when potato farming?' Grantaire said. 

Marius looked sheepish. 'We're not supposed to talk while working.'

'I don't know why I was surprised that this was some conspiracy theorist shit,' Musichetta sighed dramatically. 'Can't we just disable the bugs?'

'Yeah, if you can find them and you know how.'

'Paper notes?' Grantaire suggested. They looked at him quizzically, and he continued, 'paper isn't scarce, right? It's tacked up all over the lunch hall. If we could write the explicit stuff, then we could talk about the more vague details in a tent without them finding out.'

'That could work,' Musichetta nodded. 'We just need an excuse to get a enough paper.'

'I, uh, draw,' Grantaire couldn't think of a less big-headed way to say it. 'I could try and request some art supplies.'

'Draw, or _draw?_ ' she asked. 'Because there's a difference, and no offense, but this has to be convincing.'

The implications of her words provoked him into self-confidence. 'I'm good enough.'

'They won't hand out art supplies just to make you happy, though.' Marius frowned, only to brighten a beat later. 'You could offer to do, say, a cartoon - something about living in a camp or zombies. Art for the community.'

'Be their propaganda poster boy,' Musichetta agreed. 'It could work. Can we _please_ get out of the shower now?'

Marius obligingly turned the water off. It had worked itself up to a lukewarm temperature, something they didn't notice until it shut off and left them standing in a drafty cubicle, clad in thin wet jumpsuits that clung to their skin.

'See you at breakfast,' Grantaire said, and all three of them bolted for the door.

 

Such was the extent of Éponine's exhaustion that when she awoke the next morning she couldn't immediately remember why it was she was wearing shoes in bed and an unfamiliar powder blue hoodie over her other clothes. Piece by piece the memories returned; a dim recollection of stumbling from the car with Gavroche in tow, and the excruciating agony of climbing stairs on legs that felt like they might drop off any moment.

She got up by degrees, stretching out her limbs and slowly rising into a sitting position. Late morning sunlight was beaming in through the windows. Éponine got to her feet and walked to where the golden warmth could heat her skin. On the floor, Azelma's little cocoon of blankets and pillows was empty. For once, this didn't trouble Éponine. It must be quite late by now, and her sister was a notoriously early riser.

The same could not be said for her brother. Acting on impulse, Éponine padded to doorway to peer into the adjacent room. Her fears were unfounded; Gavroche was snoring softly on his couch, dead to the world.

'You'd hardly think he'd caused us so much trouble.' Combeferre had appeared in the corridor behind her. He was holding a pack of Walker's Cheese and Onion crisps, which he offered to her.

'He's a Thénardier,' Éponine said wearily, accepting the makeshift breakfast. 'Trouble is his thing.'

'Mm. Are you ready to come down? I was sent to fetch you. It's almost noon, and we need your input. If you need a second to change…'

'Oh, right. I'll be down in a sec.'

Back in her room, she changed into a fresh (or as fresh as the staff room washing machine would allow) set of clothes, pulling the hoodie back on over the top. Its owner would probably be downstairs, and there was a strangely nice person smell embedded in the fabric.

The others were waiting in a small, fourth floor classroom that Courfeyrac had dubbed "HQ". They knew it was his idea, because there was a sign with _HQ_ written on it hanging off the door, and Courfeyrac's handwriting was very distinctive.

'Morning,' said Combeferre, and after a swift glance at the clock, corrected himself. 'Afternoon, I mean.'

The only free chair was between him and Enjolras. She took it reluctantly, uncomfortably aware of the eyes on her.

'Is that Cosette's hoodie?' Courfeyrac inquired innocently, casting a sideways glance at the two girls.

Éponine still couldn't remember the exchange, but that explanation made sense.

'Waking up in each other's clothes, my my,' Courfeyrac adopted a mock scandalized expression. 'What on earth did … in fact, no, don't tell me. Whatever happened last night, it's your business.'

Scowling, Éponine pulled the offending article off over her head, balled it up and chucked it across the table to a red-faced Cosette. Courfeyrac wolf-whistled, and Combeferre elbowed him in the ribs.

'What's this urgent meeting about?' Éponine asked pointedly, and Enjolras coughed.

'Well, we were discussing the way the group works. It was recently… brought to our attention that there are some of us who act in the roles of leaders, even though they have no right to.'

'We thought it would be a good idea to elect a couple of people to act as temporary leaders,' Combeferre put in. 'They would make decisions regarding supply runs and strategies, et cetera.'

'Aka give the people who run everything anyway some credit,' said Bossuet. 'Why not?'

There were murmurs of assent. 'An election is a good idea, though,' Feuilly said thoughtfully. 'That way we can avoid disagreements over validation of opinions.'

Enjolras visibly relaxed. Grantaire had really got under his skin, Éponine thought. It was really quite amusing how far gone he was.

'How many leaders are we going to pick?' Joly asked. 'Or just one?'

'I was thinking of three,' said Combeferre 'That way if there's any disagreement, we can have a majority.'

'All right.' Bossuet shrugged. 'What do we do?'

'Either we suggest candidates and vote on them, or make it a general free-for-all where each person writes down three names and we put them in a hat.'

'I can't positively imagine who those candidates might be,' Bahorel yawned.

'It's not terribly difficult,' Combeferre admitted. 'You're acquainted with my and Enjolras's method of leadership. I just thought it might be a good idea to let Éponine say something before we elect her.'

'Wait, what?' When they spoke of a third candidate, she'd assumed they meant Courfeyrac. He was far more involved in the running of the college than she was, and his choice of friends didn't hurt either.

'We thought you would be a good person to have on the council,' Combeferre explained quickly. 'The two of us can occasionally,' he glanced at Enjolras, 'get carried away. Without being sexist and casting the woman in the sensible role, I think you'd bring a gravity to it that we need.'

Unsure whether to be flattered or embarrassed, Éponine shrugged. 'I'll do it if people really want me to. Seems like a better idea to have a free-for-all, though.'

'Then that's what we'll do. Everyone - write down three names on the paper you get, fold it up, put it in a hat and we'll count. Sound like it works?'

'Ooh, do us commoners get to campaign? ' Courfeyrac was tapping his fingers on the table. 'Vote for me and get ice cream?'

'You know how to win people's hearts.' Bossuet raised an eyebrow. 'What flavour?'

'All flavours. Courfland knows no limits. Oh, and I intend to rename this college once I own it.'

'Yes, anyway,' Enjolras was more bemused than annoyed. 'Is everybody clear?'

They dispersed so as to cast their votes in private. Éponine commandeered the neighbouring room to think over her choices. The first two were glaringly obvious, even without talk of specific candidates. Without Enjolras and Combeferre, they probably would have died multiple times, not to mention they were the ones who'd thought up the election in the first place.

It would make sense to put Courfeyrac in the third slot. He might joke about some things - well, _everything_ \- but he wasn't dumb. With the restraining presence of his friends, he would probably do a reasonable job. And yet she couldn't like him. Perhaps it was the charm, or just the general popular boy attitude. Something about it grated, and she didn't have the patience to learn to like him.

After a moment's hesitation, she scribbled _Feuilly_ beneath the first two names. She couldn't elect Bossuet and not Joly, Bahorel was useful only as a joke choice and there was something off about voting for Cosette. As a friend, Éponine was forced to concede the girl wasn't _bad_ , but nor was she strategist material. Though were he here, Marius would have voted for his girlfriend as many times as the rules would allow.

Combeferre and Feuilly collected the votes in a paper bag, and took them off to be tallied. While she was waiting, Éponine ambled over to Cosette, wanting somebody easy to talk to and feeling vaguely guilty about not voting for her.

'Hey. Thanks for the sweater.'

'You're welcome. Is Gavroche OK?'

'Sleeping like a log. Boy's gonna be on the receiving end of _so_ many lectures when he wakes up.'

Cosette smiled softly. 'I'm glad he's all right.'

'Yeah, me too. And, uh, I wanted to say like - thanks, for helping me out.'

'It was nothing.'

'Driving for the first time in a gutted city, with headlights that barely work and not getting us killed? That's pretty good.'

Cosette reddened. 'Well, maybe after this I'll be a Formula One racing driver,' she managed. 'Presuming there is an after.'

'Pretty depressing not to,' Éponine agreed. 'I can see you in a car, though, with like your hair streaming out and blinding your opponents.'

'That would be cool. Where do you see yourself, in this post-apocalypse utopia?'

'I'm either gonna join a circus with a tightrope-walking dog, or open a bakery. Can't decide.'

'Do both?'

The conversation ran on in this way, mindlessly cheerful in a way that for once wasn't irritating. Éponine almost felt sad when Combeferre returned. Feuilly had written the results of the vote in big letters on a sheet of A3, which he held up so that they could see the results.

 

Combeferre: 7

Enjolras: 7

Éponine: 6

Courfeyrac: 4

Feuilly: 2

Cosette: 1

Bossuet: 1

 

Éponine's stomach dropped. Whatever Combeferre had said, she hadn't _really_ expected people to vote for her. She hadn't been to uni like the others, she wasn't scholarly or diplomatic and she had two kids to look after. And yet people had set a pen to paper and written her name. A part of her wanted to grab the result sheet and wave it in her father's face, prove that smart, educated people saw value in her. The rest of her recognised the childish futility of the gesture, however appealing it was.

'You don't have to take it,' Combeferre said gently, misreading the confused mess of emotions on her face. 'If you abdicate, the position passes to Courfeyrac, as the person with the next greatest vote.'

'Oh, I'll take the position,' Éponine shrugged, a small smile curving her full lips. 'On your own heads be it.' Responsibility aside, it was nice to be popular.

 

Marius's friend Mabeuf was a friendly if vague old man, who introduced himself by asking what their favourite books were. Musichetta said _The Hunger Games_ without missing a beat, and Grantaire mumbled something about _A Song of Ice and Fire_. He'd never actually read any of the books, but reasoned he'd seen enough of the TV show to be able to bullshit opinions. It was better than admitting the last full book he'd finished was in year eleven. Mabeuf seemed to barely register their choices, he merely nodded and forgot all about it.

This interaction occurred over breakfast. Strictly speaking, they were supposed to sit with their assigned groups for the meal. Marius assured them that nobody could be bothered to abide by that rule, and that security wasn't any more enthusiastic about enforcing it.

'Marius said you knew more,' Musichetta prompted. 'About, ah, stuff.'

Mabeuf contemplated his breakfast, a single boiled egg and some thin bread fingers. 'I know some things,' he said and resumed eating. Grantaire wondered why old men who spoke little were considered wise in popular culture. It was far more likely that they were just absent-minded.

 

As the success of their more covert communications depended on his artistic ability, Grantaire made the appeal for supplies straight after breakfast. Calmly disregarding Marius's suggestion of a camp cartoon, he said told the official that it would help him adjust, and it might make others feel better if they had some positive artwork in their lives.

To his immense relief, the request was granted. He was given five sheets of paper and two felt tip markers, with the promise of more should the results be satisfactory. Much as he wanted to set to work immediately, there was no way of getting out of potato duty and so he spent hours in a field holding a watering can and trudging back and forth to fill it. Musichetta too far away to speak to, Marius in a different field altogether. The only familiar person in the immediate vicinity was Plaits, and strangely he didn't feel too eager to embark on a discussion on astrology.

To keep his mind occupied while he worked, Grantaire planned what he would draw. If they asked why there was a sheet missing, he could just say he'd messed up a picture. It was all too tempting to bust out a romanticized portrait of Enjolras, only Marius would be certain to recognise it. Damn. He'd have to stick to generic subjects.

The end of the shift couldn't come fast enough. When the bell finally rang - a cowbell, clearly the camps had been hit hard economically - he was ready to drop his watering can where he stood and sprint for the tents. It was agony to saunter out as if he hardly cared, to fall in step with Musichetta and complain about the blister that was forming on his left hand.

'I just want to ask,' Musichetta said, so quietly he could barely hear her. 'How well do you know Marius? Granted, we all showered together in what was a highly spiritual and traumatic experience, but like. Do you have reasonable grounds to trust him?'

'I don't know _him_ that well,' Grantaire admitted, hastily adding, 'He seems genuine, though. Gave me some extra clothes when I didn't have any spares. Plus, his girlfriend is great. She's possibly the most honestly nice person on the planet, and she was - is - crazy about him.'

She exhaled. 'Just thought I'd ask. Not that I trust _your_ judgment 100%. You could be a government spy.'

He laughed. 'Goddammit, you blew my cover. Please don't execute me as a traitor.'

'Of course not,' Musichetta smiled sunnily. 'I'll just let you live with the guilt.'

 

Knowing that their roommates weren't likely to be back until curfew set in, Grantaire and Musichetta volunteered their tent for the discussion.

'How hard is it to keep things tidy?' the hostess grumbled, moving the boys' sleeping bags onto their mats so that there was space to sit down. Grantaire withheld from pointing out that her space was by far the messiest; her sleeping bag half rolled up and covered in haphazardly strewn possessions. Out of everybody he had met, she had the deepest attachment to material objects.

He took out the spare paper, and wrote _write small or we'll run out of space_ in miniscule letters along the top. 'Who wants to get this wild party started?'

Marius and Mabeuf complied, taking the first turn with the pen. While they conferred together to list relevant details, Grantaire used his remaining felt tip to start a drawing of London's skyline. He couldn't recall exactly what went where, but artistic licence could account for any errors.

He had the basic outline of the London Eye, Canary Whard and the Shard when Marius cleared his throat, passing over the paper. Written in two different handwritings was the following:

 

_What we know for certain:_

_\- The apocalypse was caused deliberately_

_\- It has to be maintained in order to continue_

_\- It has something to do with Javert's election campaign_

_\- You're not allowed to leave the camps_

_What we suspect:_

_\- It's a form of publicity stunt?_

_\- There is a scheduled end date_

_\- No camp confidentiality: they're logging our personal info for ???_

_What we don't know:_

_\- How it can be stopped_

_\- What exactly Javert is doing_

_\- What we can do_

Musichetta swore loudly once she'd finished the list. Grantaire scribbled under the last sentence: _plan: we get all the info and take it to Enjolras_.

'That sounds sensible, but what could he do?' Marius spoke aloud. By itself, the question was perfectly innocuous.

'Do you remember Enjolras? Fire of a thousand suns Enjolras?' On paper, Grantaire wrote: _if anyone can bring down Javert it's him and his genius sidekicks_.

Marius read it, and conceded that Grantaire had a point.

'What would we need to get?' Musichetta asked.

The next few minutes were filled with a flurry of movement as they scrambled to write messages. The paper soon read:

 

_Files? Maybe a hard drive?_

_They'll be coded. Are your friends hackers?_

_One of them must be. Plan?_

_Steal stuff & escape?_

'Sounds good.'

_We'll have to plot escape 1st. so if theft goes wrong: we run_

_Is anyone good at nicking stuff?'_

 

'I am,' said Musichetta, and Grantaire raised an eyebrow.

'You were rich.'

'I was bored.'

With a patiently despairing glance, Marius took the paper.

_I show Musichetta around, she steals, then we escape?_

 

With a little more back-and-forth, the bare bones of a scheme started to emerge. Grantaire finished the skyline picture and began a basic sketch of a flower. The plan wasn't much more than a mutual agreement to snoop around and collect information about the security measures, but for the moment it was all they could muster.

 

Éponine spent her first night as a group leader arguing with Gavroche over babysitting and then patrolling. Having grudgingly apologised for 'making you lose your shit' _,_ Gavroche took offence at being monitored and argued that his sister was being unreasonable. He caved eventually, recognizing this was a battle he could not win, and consented even to moving his bed into her and Azelma's room, so she could keep a better eye on him.

He was sleeping peacefully when she left for her watch at 2.30. She got up quickly and quietly, not wanting to disturb either of her siblings. Courfeyrac was her partner for the night; after briefly conferring it was agreed he would take the library beat, and her the one that circled the front of the building.

They walked downstairs together in silence, splitting up once they reached the ground floor. Every so often she saw him again where their paths intersected, his features eerily lit by the bluish torch beam. The sight of somebody else walking around was so wrong that she would alter her pace to speed up or slow down so that she could avoid the interaction. It was far more comforting to walk alone in the dark, daring the monsters to leap out and face her.

Éponine paused for a moment by the entrance, wedging the door open by a crack so that the cold air could rush in and make goosebumps rise on her arms. Like the showers she took to wash off the stench of her house, it was so unbearably freezing it left her feeling scoured clean. And here there was no Montparnasse to 'accidentally' walk in on her changing, or make snide jokes about what she 'owed' him for the use of his bathroom.

That was one part of her life she would happily choose zombies over, not that she had the choice. Montparnasse had vanished a month before the apocalypse began, and opinions were divided on whether he'd gone underground literally or metaphorically. Éponine thought the former more likely. It would be nice to imagine he'd been killed off by the epidemic - only after all, surviving was what Montparnasse was best at.

A dull thump from outside brought her back to the present. Her first impulse was to investigate, swiftly curbed by the reminder that if she did it would be to re-enact the first five minutes of a horror movie. It was probably something stupid - a pigeon flying into a window, or something. Birds did shit like that all the time. Éponine was about to ignore it when she heard the sound again, and realised as only awake person on this side of the college, it was her job to see what was going one.

With a torch in one hand and a knife in the other, she navigated the heavily barricaded reception with care and emerged into the night. The cold wind hit her all at once, permeating her clothing and forming a coat of ice around her bones. Anxious to return to somewhere warmer, she shone the torch beam in a wide circle.

The front yard itself was empty. The barricade built around the gate looked slightly smaller in the dark; Éponine supposed it was more impressive in daylight.

It must have been a bird. Fucking pigeons, they had to be the only species thriving in the apocalypse. At this rate they would outlast humans. Forget cockroaches, it was the feathered vermin that was going to last till the end of days.

Rolling her eyes at her own jumpiness, Éponine turned to reenter the college. As she did so, the beam of her torch swung round and briefly lit up the side of the building.

Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest. There were no zombies in the yard because they were all congregated over by the wall; a heaving pack of twenty or thirty. Having given up on the blockaded ground floor windows, they were launching an assault on the first floor; crawling up over each other to wriggle through an empty window frame. It was a bizarre and horrifying sight - the genius of the human stepladder undermined by the careless abandon with which the creatures were climbing over their comrades: cooperation in its most chaotic form.

Éponine didn't have the breath to scream. She stumbled back towards the entrance, her movements so frenzied she nearly overbalanced. Taking a deep lungful of oxygen, she forced her limbs to stop shaking. Now was not the right time to fall apart. Now was the time to run and raise the alarm, to fight, to respond to this in a way that wouldn't shame her later. They were depending on her - Cosettewas depending on her - sleeping peacefully, knowing that Éponine would wake them if they were under attack.

She ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My schedule is all over the place. If anyone is trying to read this on some sort of regular basis, I'm so sorry. 
> 
> (It will probably only get more hectic as exams creep closer).


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What followed was the worst half hour of his life. Trapped in the darkness of the truck, he could do nothing but wait apathetically for Marius to return, for the vehicle to leave, for all of them to get caught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Character Death/Potentially upsetting content
> 
> I know it says this in the tags, but trigger warnings come before spoilers.

Never before had the size and scale of the front door barricade been such a hindrance. Éponine clambered clumsily through the access gap, scraping against a metal chair leg that sent pain she hardly felt searing through her shoulder. Then she was in the clear, running through the corridors to the closest staircase with nothing in her path, the rapid drum of her pulse pitted in a desperate race against her footsteps.

Zombies were not supposed to be this athletic or this clever. She'd had seen enough to know that they weren't the slow, drooling creatures of popular fiction, but nor had she or any of her friends had grounds to suspect an attack of this kind. What was the _Jurassic Park_ quote?

 _Nature finds a way_.

She took the steps two at a time, grabbing onto the handrail and using it to propel herself upwards. This method worked fine until she reached the first floor, where her way was blocked by a steady stream of zombies trooping out of the corridor and up the stairs. Her initial count of thirty was laughably inaccurate; the train went on and on, too thick to fight through. She couldn't get past, could only watch helplessly as they ascended to the upper levels.

Éponine screamed aloud, a raw inarticulate cry of equal parts warning and panic she hoped would be loud enough to wake the others. If she were lucky, if the universe felt like giving her some slack, Courfeyrac would have seen as well and would be running up the back staircase to sound a proper warning.

The noise had alerted the zombies to her presence, a few were turning her way. Switching her knife and her torch so that she could fight with her stronger hand, she ran to meet them. There was no way she was going to keep the disadvantage of the stairs at her back; she'd been in enough battles to know how that would work out for her.

In its own bizarre way, the fight was soothing. Éponine slid into an old routine: dodge, stab, slash, repeat. She was forced to drop her torch and fight in almost total darkness, yet even that was manageable. The constant battle against the relentless tide required her every attention, so she was unable to fuss over the others. They were adults; they would just have to handle it.

And handle it they must have done, because ten minutes later the lights came on suddenly, nearly blinding her. She had to twist sideways to avoid being shoved down the stairs. In the harsh glare her blade gleamed red, slick with a mixture of fresh and congealing blood. Éponine forced it through the throat of a zombie in a lab coat, simultaneously felling one of its fellows with a sharp kick.

The noise levels were rising, she could hear other people now and gradually they appeared: Bahorel and Feuilly fighting their way down the stairs: slashing and punching with practiced precision born of extensive practice. Between them they were able to press the zombies back, away from the stairs, until they were next to the broken window.

Reassured that at least some of the others were OK, Éponine fought with renewed strength. At one point they were all three standing back-to-back, and she couldn't quell the thought that they'd make a hilarious trio of crime fighters.

'That looks like all of them here,' Feuilly panted, as Bahorel lifted the decapitated body of a zombie off the ground and hurled it back through the smashed window. 'Let's find a table, block the window, stop them coming through?'

Éponine barely heard him. She took advantage of the lull to make a 360 degree turn and bolt up the remaining stairs, past Joly repeatedly stabbing a pensioner with their own cane, past the piles of bloodied bodies heaped in the stairwells, up to the fifth floor where everybody had been sleeping. 

Enjolras was hovering at the top, his expression bleak and terrible. 'Éponine,' he said, slowly, as though the word cost him to utter it. A fresh wave of fear consumed her: she didn't want to know what had happened to cut Enjolras's usual eloquence short.

She started to run again, past him and into the corridor. She was running everywhere now, it seemed. Walking was a luxury for people without friends perpetually in danger, without stupid little brothers who didn't know when to keep themselves safe. There was a strange buzzing in her ears, where it came from she couldn't say.

The hallway was empty, save for two figures right down the other end. They were standing - she felt sick, and the background noise increased - outside Gavroche's room. She recognised Combeferre's hair; he had his arm around a person in ducky pajamas next to that could only be Courfeyrac. Before them on the floor, blocked from her view by their legs, was a small and broken body.

How many times had she told Gavroche to stay away from fights, even when she knew he wouldn't listen? How many times had she told herself that his independence was a good thing, it would serve him well in the long run? After the events of the previous night, she'd thought that maybe, just maybe, he would take a second to think before rushing off.

She pulled up short a few metres away, unable to look at him. Her eyes fixed on Combeferre instead, who silently reached out and pulled her into a hug. Eyes squeezed tight, Éponine exhaled slowly in a futile attempt to calm herself. The buzzing had risen in volume to a roar in her ears, almost drowning out the muttered condolences.

'I'm sorry, I'm so - ' Courfeyrac, pointlessly apologetic.

'I didn't get there in time,' Cosette, unforgiving to herself.

'There were too many. I couldn't stop them,' Gavroche, having seen his world torn into shreds around him.

 _Gavroche_. Éponine's head snapped up and she jerked away from Combeferre's embrace. Her brother was standing next to Courfeyrac. For once, his cocky demeanor was nowhere to be seen: Gavroche was wide-eyed and shaking like a leaf. A smear of red decorated his face from his cheek to his hairline and he looked exhausted, but he was upright and _alive_.

Her brain was too slow to do the maths. She had to twist to look at the floor for answers, and the realization punched her in the stomach. She had feared so deeply for her brother she'd never stopped to worry about her sister, and it was Azelma that Cosette was cradling, the little girl's body even smaller somehow, curled on the floor, a marionette with snapped strings.

Everything that had been so loud receded, and all Éponine could see was her little sister, who she'd failed absolutely. Azelma's left side was soaked with scarlet, and her head was twisted at a strange angle. Éponine sank to her knees and reached out to touch her sister, to tell herself that Azelma was only sleeping. Yet there was a difference between an unconscious body and a dead one, a difference Éponine had learned years ago and now wished she didn't know.

Cosette's eyes were bright with tears as she sat there, smoothing Azelma's soft black hair, weeping for a girl that could have been her sister. Beside her Éponine sat, dry-eyed and numb. A distant part of her brain registered that this was wrong; she should be sobbing too, only she couldn't. She couldn't do anything but gaze helplessly at her failure, at her _sister_ , who would never cry again.

None of the boys knew what to do or say. Some left and others took their places, initially curious, then shocked, sympathetic. She saw a dim blur of crimson; Enjolras must have joined them. For once he had no rousing speech to offer, his tongue was as tied as the rest. Exhausted and unable to help, they floated away to treat minor injuries, and assess and make some sort of repairs to the damage. Dawn would be a long way off and they would be vulnerable without further reinforcements.

Only Cosette remained. She extended an arm to Éponine and pulled her close, so Éponine's face was buried in her hair and there were strong arms supporting her. Cosette had no words of comfort to offer, no condolences, yet none were necessary. She was merely someone to hold someone who wouldn't pity or judge or laugh about it later, maybe the only person who could even start to understand, and in that moment Éponine loved her for it.

 

The rest of her past might be a fabrication of the most intricate nature, but Musichetta hadn't lied about her thieving ability. On her very first expedition, she found a document listing machinery that required regular maintenance. The list included heaters, the remote-controlled entrance gates, and half a dozen security cameras located around the entrance. She also found an unopened packet of Cadbury chocolate buttons, which they ate enthusiastically under cover of darkness.

Grantaire's first two drawings, the skyline and the flower, were received with grudging admiration and hung in the dining hall. At his request, he was given an old set of pencils and a chewed yellow eraser shaped like a lemon. Not only would his drawings be far superior with shading, now they could rub out messages and reuse the paper.

Mabeuf was starting to prove his worth as a strategist. Before the apocalypse, he told them, he was a book collector, which meant he'd read more escape novels than all three of the teenagers put together. He still would occasionally drift off during meetings, but never to an inconvenient extent.

And Marius's contribution? Marius did everything. He was excited to have friends, excited to have a plan, and yet more excited to be seeing Cosette again. He told Musichetta all he knew about office security, offered to pose if Grantaire wanted to draw his picture and pestered Mabeuf to ensure there wasn't an obvious possibility that they'd overlooked. 

Through the combined efforts of the four, a means of escape was uncovered and agreed upon. At first Musichetta had been a fan of disabling the main gate long enough to dash through it. The plan was vetoed by Grantaire, who argued that an obvious breakout would cause camp officials to come running. Mabeuf broke up the ensuing argument by proposing an alternative, which though not devoid of faults, had a little more promise.

The new plan relied upon their leaving on a specific day at a specific time. The presence of a deadline was both positive and negative: on the one hand, it meant they could not sit around without any progress to speak of; on the other, come departure day, they'd have to leave regardless of how ready they were.

Musichetta's hauls increased steadily. Her and Grantaire's tent was now full of illegal information. Wads of paper were stuffed between their sleeping mats and the tents' groundsheet, and she'd taken to keeping memory sticks in her bra.

The night before they left Mabeuf demonstrated his excellent sense of timing by announcing right then that he wasn't going to come, much to Marius's dismay.

 _You can't stay_ , the boy wrote pleadingly. _You can't, not after all we've found out. It's not safe_.

Mabeuf could not be swayed. He'd been able to bring a few of his books to camp and was determined not to leave them. Corinth Park's library held very little appeal, and, he said, he didn't want to slow them down.

 _I am not overly fond of clichés_ , he scrawled in his elegant, looping script, _but you cannot deny you will fare better without me_.

Grantaire agreed privately, though he would never have said so. Like all of them, he had grown fond of the vague old man, yet he valued his freedom higher. Perhaps it was selfish to want the best chance for himself, even if it came at the cost of somebody else's liberty. Yet Mabeuf was insisting on the trade, and Grantaire would do anything that allowed him to see Enjolras again.

And it was not just Enjolras he missed. He had become so accustomed to having the rest of the group in his life that now they were absent he felt fonder of them than before. Rants and debates over political injustice never interested him beyond opportunities for pointless criticisms, yet there was something about their magnetism that drew him in.

The other night he'd dreamt of them, rendered mysteriously angelic by his subconscious. Perching pigeon-like on rooftops and swooping through the assembly hall of Corinth Park, it was like every flying dream he'd ever had only better because he wasn't alone. Courfeyrac's wings were butter yellow and reflected the sunshine, Combeferre's a mix of muted navy blues that shifted between shades. Lilac for Cosette, gritty silver for Éponine, grunge green for Bahorel and a full rainbow for Jehan who was back, smiling as if they'd never left. He expected Enjolras to have red wings, but they were glossy black, magnificent and unstoppable as Enjolras himself.

Grantaire had spent so long watching them soar he forgot to see if he had wings himself. Somehow it hadn't mattered; he was content as a spectator. It had not been a dream he wanted to wake from.

Marius was still arguing with Mabeuf, vainly trying to convince the man to come. It was not going well, and he didn't have much longer. Sick of the squabbling, Musichetta called an early night and evicted the two from the tent so that she could get some sleep.

Mabeuf bid them goodnight sadly; if Marius failed this would be their last meeting. He was not going to see them off; it would pointlessly endanger him. No one knew quite what to say to him, nor was he the type for tearful farewells. He patted Musichetta on the shoulder and said something that sounded like a vague 'good luck'.

Grantaire didn't expect to sleep that night - in situations like these his nerves rarely allowed it. He surprised himself by dropping off almost at once, though this came at the cost of troubling dreams. A far cry from the bliss of the previous night, they were an incoherent jumble of panic and breathless fear that sent his heart skittering against his ribs.

Morning offered no reprieve. They were up at dawn, extricating with painful care the papers from underneath their beds without waking Bangles, Plaits or the two boys that remained nickname-less. Musichetta fashioned a bag from one of the thin cotton pillowcases, inside which they stuffed the relevant materials before creeping from the tent.

The camp was deserted this early; everyone else was still in bed.  The dawn sky lit the field with a soft pink glow, and for the shortest of seconds Grantaire was almost sorry to be leaving it. The field's emptiness meant that while they avoided awkward questions the two of them stuck out like a sore thumb. At Marius's hesitant suggestion, they awkwardly held hands, and hoped anyone watching would assume they were an annoying young couple going off to frolic in meadows or fuck in the shower.

Marius was waiting for them round the side of the entrance building. He, too, carried a bag, his made out of a black sweater. 'Everything all right?'

'Fine,' said Musichetta, releasing Grantaire's hand and leaning against the graying wall. 'How long do we have?'

'A minute and a half.' Marius's eyes were glued to the watch on his wrist. An old English teacher of Grantaire's was very fond of the phrase 'time is of the essence' and now it was stuck in his head, going round and round like a dog chasing its tail. Musichetta's digging had uncovered the luckiest of opportunities, a chance overlap of schedules that worked out in their favour. This morning, a technician was making the rounds servicing the CCTV cameras. For exactly a minute, the camera overlooking the front drive from the south side would be down, enabling a dash to the trucks that were scheduled to leave half an hour.

Grantaire hitched the bag onto his shoulder. Paper was a damn sight heavier than it looked.

'Thirty seconds,' Marius warned.

There were no further reasonable precautions they could have taken, and yet still Grantaire felt under-prepared. He wiped his sticky palms on his jumpsuit, and took a deep breath. He should savour the stillness while it lasted, and he would, if the nausea would just lessen for a moment. 

 'It's time!' Marius nearly shouted the words.

The three of them tumbled out into the open, legging it for the nearer truck. The bag of paper bounced wildly on Grantaire's bag, he envisioned the nightmare that would occur should any sheet fall out. The slap of their shoes on asphalt was impossibly loud; surely somebody would hear it and come to stop them?

Musichetta reached the truck first, her tall frame setting her slightly ahead of the stockier boys. She ripped the canvas hangings back and scrambled up and into the rear of the truck, Grantaire right on her heels. He hurled his bag into the depths of the truck and turned to help Marius, who was having difficulty with the climb.

Halfway up, Marius glanced over his shoulder and blanched. _'Somebody's coming_ ,' he mouthed, tossing Grantaire his bag and leaping down.

' _Go!'_ Musichetta hissed, pulling the hangings shut from the inside and plunging the two of them into darkness.

From across the driveway came an authoritative shout, demanding Marius identify himself.

'It's just, me.' Thank god for Marius's cluelessness. From the sound of it, he was amping it up to the max. 'Awfully sorry, I was just having a bit of a wander. You know how dull it gets, and I've been laid off field duty because,' a well timed sneeze, 'of my allergies.'

'Step away from the vehicle,' the voice ordered, though it now sounded bored as oppose to hostile.

'Of course.'

Both voices retreated. Grantaire caught something about staying away from government vehicles, and then all was silent.

What followed was the worst half hour of his life. Trapped in the darkness of the truck, he could do nothing but wait apathetically for Marius to return, for the vehicle to leave, for all of them to get caught. Was this how the Greek soldiers felt, crouched in the underbelly of the Trojan Horse, waiting for night to fall? Only their plan worked, and he had no idea if this was going to. The sick nerves that had plagued him all morning had risen to a boil in his stomach, churning and making him sweat like crazy. He could hear Musichetta's shallow breathing as she too fought to stay calm.

Grantaire had read somewhere that one of the main causes of war neurosis in the First World War was not the violent attacks or witnessing gruesome injuries, but the apathy of waiting, unable to move even if it meant your death. He thought he understood now, though this was war of a different kind. The consequences were no less severe - during her exploits, Musichetta had uncovered the unsavoury truth of what happened to failed escapees.

Focusing on anything else was impossible, and yet it helped.  The painting on the wall of his college room was still unfinished; he could complete it when he returned. No, that wasn't any good, thoughts of Corinth Park only made him realise how close he was to losing it again.

In year six, he'd learned all fifty states of America off by heart during a particularly mind-numbing double geography lesson. _Alaska, Arizona,_ no - Alabama _, Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas._

Would Marius attempt to return, or had he slunk back to Mabeuf to plot another escape?

_…California, Colorado, Connecticut…_

No, Marius wouldn't do that. He loved Cosette too much to abandon her again.

_…Delaware, Florida, Georgia…_

How was Cosette getting on? And Éponine? Both had been so devastated to lose Marius.

_…Hawaii, Idaho, Illinois…_

Even if Marius didn't make it back with them, he could assure the girls that their beloved was alive.

 _…Indiana, Iowa_ …

Musichetta sat up suddenly and nudged his arm. Footsteps drifted into their hearing, approaching the van hesitantly. Grantaire's stomach tightened. It was dark inside at the moment, but the if the flaps were opened they would be exposed to whoever had come looking.

'It's me,' a familiar voice hissed. For a second Grantaire thought of how, after the wooden horse had been wheeled through the gates of Troy, the captive Helen had approached it and spoken in the voices of the soldiers' wives, begging them to come out and reveal themselves. Even Odysseus trembled when he thought he heard Penelope, who he'd not seen for ten years.

The Greeks had held firm. Musichetta did not. She wrenched the flaps open, and helped Marius in, because of course it was Marius, and not Helen, Grantaire was being paranoid for even making the comparison.

'They'll have seen me on camera,' Marius panted. 'Hopefully no one's monitoring just now, and by the time they see the tape we'll be gone.'

'Are you all right?' whispered Musichetta, moving to refasten the flaps.

'Fine. I saw the drivers around the corner, they should be coming soon.'

Sure enough, a low murmur of men's voices drew closer, and the engines sputtered to life. They set off slowly, lurching down to the gate. There was a heartstopping moment after they halted, and Grantaire was seized by a sudden fear that the van would be subject to a search. It would be good procedure, and yet no such event occurred. The trucks started off again at a faster pace, heading back towards the city.

Grantaire lay down in the rough truck bed, readjusting to the rhythm of bumps in the road. The nausea was finally beginning to ebb. They were not out of the woods by a long shot - they were still in a government vehicle, for one thing - but so far it was working. They were going back, to London, to the constant danger, to Corinth Park.

 ' _We did it,'_ Musichetta was whispering gleefully. ' _We're out!'_

Marius shushed her, though he was no better: peeking out of the back to feel the wind on his face and watch the camp disappear from view.

Suddenly feeling very tired, Grantaire closed his eyes. They were going home.

 

The rest of the night passed in a blur. Éponine didn't remember most of it - she barely had a grip on what was happening at the time. Feuilly and Joly took over the watch, and Azelma's body was carried into an empty classroom.  After sending a shellshocked Gavroche to bed, Éponine sat vigil by it. She washed the blood from her sister's clothes and arranged her into a more peaceful position.

At first light, she and Bahorel went down into the front yard. It was all paved, apart from a small strip of grassy wasteland that ran between the college buildings. There they dug a grave, so as to give Azelma a place to rest. It was hard work and slow going, and at one point Courfeyrac offered to take over. She waved him away - her sister was her responsibility, even now.

Still trying to be helpful, Courfeyrac found the prettiest blanket to be a shroud for the girl. It did seem like he was genuinely trying to help, yet if Éponine was being unnecessarily hard on him, she didn't have the energy to rectify it. The last thing on her mind at the moment was sparing the feelings of rich boys.

Gavroche got up in time for the burial. He insisted he'd slept - the dark shadows under his eyes told another story. No longer stunned into silence, he was apologizing every five seconds for not protecting Azelma, for letting the zombies get past him. It didn't matter how many times people told him he'd done all he could, Gavroche persisted, and every time she heard his apologies Éponine's heart broke all over again.

Midday saw her sitting by the long window, slumped against the glass. Gavroche was napping, overseen by Bossuet, and Azelma was in the ground. For once, she didn't have to worry about her siblings. That in itself was painful.

Yet still no tears had graced her eyes, not when Enjolras spoke a brief yet moving eulogy for a girl he barely knew, not when Azelma was being lowered down and it hit Éponine that this was it, she would never see her sister's face again.

The absence was all she could feel, like a yawning hole in her chest that left no space for other emotions. Not sorrow, nor pain, just gaping emptiness that threatened to swallow her.

She heard soft footfalls in the corridor behind her, and Cosette's voice calling her name. 'Éponine. What are you doing out here? You should get some sleep.'

'Can't,' Éponine mumbled.

'I'm sorry,' Cosette sat on the floor beside her, comfortably close. Friend-close.

'If I hear one more apology, I'm going to scream. It's not your fault.'

'I'm s- I know. I suppose I don't know what else to say.'

'I don't either. It's just - it's not fair, you know? Azelma got through _so much_. Survived the worst parents on record, trouble at school, et bloody cetera. If Gav and I hadn't been around, it would have been a lot worse. But she made it through that, and then the fucking _apocalypse_ happens and magically I'm still able to protect her. Until I'm not.'

'You're not to blame.'

'Then who is? Who do we point to and say _"because of you a nine-year-old girl is dead?"'_

'All of us are. We _all_ failed. Not just you. Trust me.'

'Do you?'

'What?'

'Trust me.'

'Of course.'

'I used to love Marius, you know.' She might as well throw caution to the winds. It wasn't like this revelation could fuck her life up even more.  'That's why I was such a bitch. But god, you don't know how insufferable the two of you were together.'

'Marius doesn't matter now. None of it does.' Cosette leaned closer. 'He's gone, and he's not coming back.'

'Yeah. So. Does that mean I can do this?' In a burst of bravado that surprised even her, Éponine closed the space between them and touched her lips to Cosette's.

It was the most chaste of kisses, light as the beat of a butterfly's wings. Éponine drew away slowly, not wanting to look the other girl in the eye and see the sudden awkwardness and hostility that must be forming.

She had an apology ready, a pathetic excuse really, but she only got as far as 'I'm sor- ' when Cosette gave a strangled giggle and cut her off with a kiss in reply.

If the first one had been cautious, this kiss was the opposite, hungry, lonely and desperate. Éponine forgot where she was and who she was, even the gnawing emptiness inside her diminished slightly, because Cosette's hands were tangled in her hair and she smelled like her hoodie, only _better_. All the girls Éponine had kissed before had all tasted of hard liquor and night clubs, Cosette was sunny afternoons and spring flowers and exactly what Éponine needed to rekindle life inside her.

'We should have done this sooner,' Cosette said, when they next broke apart. She was still playing with Éponine's hair, and for once having it braided didn't sound like such a horrific idea.

'We should,' Éponine agreed, and despite the thrill of the moment a yawn escaped her. 'Might have to put it on hold for the moment, lest I fall asleep.'

'I could do with a nap as well. I'll walk you to your room,' Cosette offered, and too late Éponine remembered that her room had been Azelma's also, and it would be full of her stuff.

'Shit, my room… not a good place to be in. Could I, uh,' she tried to phrase it in a non-creepy way, 'sleep with you? Not _sleep with_ you, just like, be in your room?'

'Of course.' She offered a hand.

Cosette's room wasn't far, just a few doors down. She hadn't enough blankets to make up a bed on the floor, so they both ended up on the couch, squished and half on top of each other. One of Éponine's legs was dangling off the end, yet she felt more comfortable than she ever could have with a whole sofa to herself. She drifted off to sleep, soothed by the regular rhythm of the other girl's breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. 
> 
>  
> 
> (It's nearly May, so bye bye updates. I'll try not to let it die too much, but it's going to be difficult.)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'God, I wish I had a camera. Apocalypse vines. Those should be a thing.'

They bailed out of the truck when it reached Central London. It was too much to hope that it would drive by Corinth Park, and sooner or later there would be a stop to collect passengers. None of them fancied taking chances against armed drivers, it was a risk they'd rather avoid.

Musichetta peeled back the flaps so that they could watch the receding road and pick a moment to jump. The trucks were trundling down a residential London street, slowly swerving around abandoned cars. From the back, the scenery was a surreal mix of the devastated and the undamaged. The regular rows of plane trees planted every ten metres along the pavement were coming into leaf, turning the street into a green tunnel. It was a comforting reminder that nature didn't give a shit whether there was an apocalypse happening or not.

Marius was grinning like a loon. 'Beautiful, isn't it?' he whispered. 'Tragedy cannot halt spring, nor does it have a hope of stopping summer.'

Grantaire really didn't give Jehan enough credit for having borne Marius's poetry in such good humour.

'Real beautiful,' he said, gazing at a section of the street where the houses had been burnt and reduced to charred ruins. The homes that stood untouched by the fire had shattered windows and doors hanging off their hinges. It took being out here and seeing the damage to remember why the camps had seemed so appealing. Only now could he appreciate how secure he'd felt, surrounded by barbed wire fences designed exactly to keep zombies out. He would far rather prefer being out here than in there, but he couldn't deny it had been nice not to have to worry about being attacked every five seconds.

The truck lurched to a near stop and Musichetta jabbed Grantaire in the shoulder, knocking him out of his reverie. He got the message. Grabbing hold of his pillowcase bag he shuffled forwards and leapt unceremoniously from the vehicle, barely remembering to bend his knees before he hit the ground. Some of the paper spilled from his bag mid-flight and fluttered onto the tarmac, landing worryingly close to a puddle.

Musichetta and Marius tumbled out behind him, a comical mixture of graceful and ungainly. The trucks had jerked into motion just as they jumped, driving off down the street without a clue that they'd lost three hitchhikers. Picking up speed now the road was free of obstacles; they turned a corner, and vanished from sight.

'We did it,' murmured Musichetta, and then shouted, 'We _actually fucking did it_.'

Marius whooped, punched the air and demonstrated the most idiotic victory dance Grantaire had ever seen. Musichetta joined in for a while, showing a series of fancy dance steps she'd learned somewhere.

Mabeuf's cheesy plan had _worked._ A grin stole its way across Grantaire's face. However determined he'd been, he had nursed more than a few doubts about their chances of success. It was healthy in his position, as his fellow conspirators were nothing if not optimistic. Only their enthusiasm had paid off, and they were going _home._

He took a deep breath to savour the moment, and then with a sigh mentally disposed with the celebrations. Before they did anything else, they'd have to figure out where they were and how to get to Corinth Park without dying along the way. Unlike the grid of streets that made up New York, London was a sprawling urban labyrinth of pubs and canals and twisting back alleys that curved round and doubled back on themselves.

In his second year of college, Grantaire had often gone for 'pub crawls' that were really no more than drunken walks invariably resulting in getting completely lost and passing out on a bench. Sober or not, he was no more confident of his ability to navigate.

It didn't feel kind to burst his friends' happy bubble, but it was necessary. Loosing sight of their goal just when it was in sight would be the biggest of all errors. Clearing his throat, Grantaire broached the subject of transportation.

There was a short pause.

'I _think_ this looks familiar,' Musichetta said thoughtfully. 'Where did you say the college was?'

After a brief consultation, they saw  (or Marius saw) a bus stop sign five hundred yards down the road. The good news was that it gave them a vague idea of where they were, the bad was that it was miles away from the sixth form.

'Well, in any case this should be an adventure,' remarked Musichetta, stooping to collect the paper sheets that had evacuated the bag when they left the truck. 'Something to tell the grandkiddies about.'

'Because everything else that has happened to us is totally boring,' said Grantaire, and Marius started to laugh.

 

Éponine woke to such a strange situation that for a good minute she supposed it were a dream. Reality could not reasonably account for why she was a strange room, on a sofa curled up next to someone warm whose arms were still entangled around her.

Waking up to next to someone in itself was still a relatively new experience. Most of the people she'd slept with in the past were not big fans of The Morning After, and she couldn't blame them.

Her thoughts growing steadily more coherent, Éponine realised that she must be awake, or else have hallucinated the morning's events. Her emotions returned in a rush, a tangled and confusing mess of bubbly joy and a terrible aching hurt that stilled her half-formed smile.

It was late afternoon, if the classroom clock was to be believed. Rising slowly she disentangled Cosette's arms from where they had held onto her and placed them carefully by her sides. The girl slumbered on, unaware. A lock of chestnut hair had fallen across her face and with every breath it stirred, fluttering in the miniature breeze. Éponine watched it for a moment, before slipping out into the hall to go in search of her brother.

She ran into Combeferre almost immediately. He greeted her with admirable composition, though his eyes had widened considerably at seeing her emerge from Cosette's bedroom. 'Afternoon. You had a nap?'

She nodded, grateful that he'd refrained from calling her out. 'Where's Gavroche?'

'Last I saw, Joly was with him. They were going round to the science buildings to find things to blow up.'

She frowned, and he realised his words had in no way lessened her alarm, adding, 'It's OK; Joly's a med student. He knows enough about chemistry to control the explosions.'

Éponine had been more concerned that he wasn't an adequate bodyguard, but she couldn't find a way to say so.

''Ponine?' Cosette had woken up, and joined them in the corridor. She looked impossibly cute, drowsy and tousled and irresistibly huggable. In front of someone else, Éponine realised that their combined disheveled appearance might as well have been a big sign that read WE SHARED A BED. Or maybe WE SHARED A BED AND DIDN'T HAVE SEX, BUT THERE'S NO WAY YOU COULD KNOW THAT.

'Afternoon, Cosette,' Combeferre blinked. 'Um, Bossuet and Feuilly are cooking the last of our current supplies for an evening meal. Éponine, as a member of the council we'll need you to be present after dinner for a discussion about where to go next for food.'

'Gee, there's nothing I'd love more,' she said, but she nodded.

'You sleep OK?' Cosette inquired, as Combeferre retreated back inside the safety of his own room.

'Better, thanks.' Éponine shifted on the spot. She'd made up her mind to be sensible about this, however excruciating it was. She had to do what she never did and imply that intimacy had meant something to her.

Proper privacy for this discussion would be nice, but they were in a deserted corridor and if she re-entered Cosette's room now she would never leave. 'Um, hey. Do you want to talk about this morning, or pretend it never happened, or what?'

'I don't think we should pretend it never happened. That this, I would like to be with you.' Cosette flushed. 'If you want to.'

'I didn't mean we should talk _now._ I need to eat something and preferably sample Courfeyrac's secret coffee stash before anything I say will be coherent. But I do like you, I'm just not sure I should make these decisions when I'm feeling sad as shit. Loneliness does not form the basis for the best ideas, trust me, I know. Wow, I'm actually being something like mature. So, could we talk about it after dinner?'

'Don't you have a strategy meeting?'

'Well, after that.'

'OK. It's a plan.'

 

The bikes were Marius's idea. Musichetta and Grantaire were horrified.

'When I said, "a mode of transport" I mean like a stolen car,' said Musichetta. 'Not a rickety deathtrap.'

'Not to mention how I am really not fit enough to cycle all the way back,' Grantaire interjected. 'I'll pass out, and you'll have to carry me.'

At that, she gave him a despairing glance. 'Please, I've seen you in the shower. Eating trash and running for your life everyday has done wonders for your physique.'

'Running and cycling are different muscles,' he said, though he supposed she could be right. However much joy he'd taken in being someone who complained about fitness despite putting zero effort in, he was no longer eligible to do so.

'Well, what else are we going to do?' Marius fired back. 'Stand here arguing till we get eaten or run into another government truck?'

'Oh, all right then. But if we find a working car, I call dibs.'

They had more or less found a route to follow. After recalling an episode of _Sherlock_ that argued that the one book every Londoner owned was An A-Z, Musichetta broke into the street's houses and rifled through the bookshelves until she found one. It was mid-morning now, and she estimated it would take the better part of the day to complete the journey, barring further attacks and potential flat tyres.

A further investigation produced three bikes hidden under a tarpaulin in somebody's front yard. Marius demanded first pick, being the one who had come up with the idea. He unsurprisingly took a green road bike, which was by far the best option. Musichetta dived in for second place and bagged a bright orange hybrid with a chunky frame and smooth tyres, leaving Grantaire a purple children's bicycle with sparkly pink-and-silver tassels attached to the ends of the handlebars.

'Oh great,' he said, wheeling it out and examining it despairingly. 'Always what I envisioned for my grand arrival.'

'It can't be the worst part of the apocalypse so far,' Musichetta wheedled, extracting the stacks of documents from the makeshift bags and stuffing them into a sturdier backpack she'd found indoors. 'You can suffer through it.'

'I want to break gender roles as much as the next person, this just doesn't strike me as the best way. What if it breaks when we're passing through an unsavoury neighbourhood and I get eaten?'

'Perhaps zombies will be so dazzled by its brightness that they back away in awe,' Marius added, fighting to keep a straight face.

'Yeah, yeah,' Grantaire regarded it sadly. He'd adjusted the saddle so that it was as high as it would go, which still was not high enough. His knees would be permanently bent to a comic degree. At least it would provide some amusement to the others.

'It's this way,' Marius was consulting the A-Z. Musichetta was trying out her bike, riding around in circles in the middle of the road. She glanced back, to where Grantaire was contorting his body to fit over the child-sized frame, and snickered. 'God, I wish I had a camera. Apocalypse vines. Those should be a thing.'

He glared at her.

 

It was a long ride home. At what Marius claimed was the halfway point, they stopped for a breather. It was a longer distance than any of them had cycled before, and it showed. The better bikes were an extreme advantage, though Marius and Musichetta took turns with the heavy backpack, which slowed them down a little. Even so, Grantaire was hard-pressed to keep up with them. Both he and Musichetta had been right in regard to his fitness; he _was_ in better shape than he thought, but cycling took a different kind of endurance than running.

And London, they discovered, was a great deal hillier than previously anticipated. The first slope left Grantaire gasping helplessly for breath, the second (which truthfully was less of a hill and more of a gradual incline) forced him to stop and heave air back into his lungs. He had barely recovered when three zombies saw the bikes and decided they were worth pursuing, and the resulting chase caused his legs to feel somewhat akin to limp spaghetti. His companions suffered, though their backs did not hurt from hunching over a bicycle half their size.

'All I'm saying is,' panted Grantaire, as they set off again after the break. 'if we get chased _up_ a hill I'm turning around running them the fuck over.'

'Don't even say it,' Musichetta shuddered. 'Your college is going to have to be some utopian fairyland with free biscuits and rooms full of kittens to make up for this.'

'While I may not be able to promise young and adorable animals, I can say with ninety-five percent certainty that the information we have will blow their minds.'

'Only ninety-five?'

'Well, I don't know. Marius, how good with computers would you say Courfeyrac is?'

The other boy hummed thoughtfully, a difficult look to pull off when rivulets of sweat were running down his face. 'He did get the TV working. I'm not sure; I don't know him that well. We shared a room at the station, and he tried to get the CCTV going, but in regard to actual computers I don't know.'

'What does Courfeyrac has to do with it anyway?' Musichetta asked.

'If he's as bored as he was when we left, it's possible he found a way into a government database and has already discovered all we know.'

'It wouldn't be in a place the public could find it,' Musichetta objected, and then amended her statement, 'I understand that's the point of hacking, but with no internet it's not like he can break into their website. All the files are on the hard drives, he can't access those without being at the computer. Right?'

Grantaire admitted that explanation made more sense. 'Give me a break, I'm working on knowledge from movies.'

'We'll never find out unless we get there,' said Marius, in an unusual show of sensibility.

'Boy's right,' nodded Musichetta. 'We should shut up and pedal instead.' Two breaths later, she added, 'God, If I ever become prime minister I'm going to ban bikes. Everyone will be forced to use noisy carbon-producing means of transport so we can destroy the environment completely.'

Though he himself had grown rather fond of her, Grantaire had harboured certain doubts about Musichetta's compatibility with Enjolras & Co. It was her temperament, rather than her background, which worried him - out of all her good traits, self-awareness and political opinions were markedly absent. Her comment set him more at ease. She would be all right.

Tightening his hold on brake levers that barely worked, he focused on the road ahead, and on keeping up with those more suitably mounted.

 

The news came halfway through the council meeting. Éponine, Combeferre and Enjolras were debating a proposal regarding chore rosters and supply runs, and Combeferre had some ideas regarding deputy leaders for the rare-but-not-impossible scenario that all three of them were incapacitated. It was during this discussion that Bossuet burst in through the door with a yell, tripped over his own feet and crashed to the ground.

'Another attack?' Enjolras demanded. All three had jumped to their feet at once. Éponine's mind frantically searched for the last time she'd seen her brother - hounded by Bahorel to do some kitchen chores. The two had been hitting it off. Bahorel wasn't the sort of role model she would have ideally chosen for Gavroche, but in the circumstances he would have to do.

'Not an attack,' Bossuet gasped. Éponine's stomach unclenched. 'They're _back_ , I don't know how, just rolled up on bikes - '

'Who's back?'

With the resigned air of one who lost all dignity long ago, Bossuet picked himself up off the floor. 'Grantaire,' he said. 'And Marius, and this hot girl - I don't know her name.'

'You have a boyfriend,' said Combeferre drily. He was, amazingly, still calm. Enjolras was not quite so steady; he was gripping the edge of the table with whitened knuckles, a complex blend of emotions fighting to control his body language. Éponine glanced his way, and a thought struck her that the most accurate title to describe how he looked would be _Just Discovered His Parents Will Be Thrown To Sharks Unless He Joins And/Or Campaigns For Ukip_.

She didn't stick around to see if he was all right. Narrowly avoiding a collision with Bossuet, she dashed for the door. Sprinting through the college had unpleasant connotations, only now her heart was skipping for a good reason. Marius was OK, not merely alive but _here_ , he'd come back, he was all right. She would see him again, and have a chance to say all that she hadn't last time. It felt like an age since he'd been gone, yet in reality it hadn't been that long at all.

She jumped halfway down the final flight of stairs and barreled into the reception. Through the tangled barricade she could see people massed outside., and took a second to identify them and confirm Bossuet's story. There indeed was Grantaire, clad in a dirty beige jumpsuit but looking no worse for wear, being enthusiastically hugged by Courfeyrac. A strange girl stood next to him, talking to a delighted Joly.

And beside her was Marius, sweaty and tired and _alive_. Éponine could barely restrain herself from running to him and hugging him so tightly that he'd never be able to leave her again.

Yet restrain herself she did, for someone else had had the same idea. Cosette was clinging onto him like a baby monkey, tears rolling down her freckled face, Marius clutching her tight. Their bodies were so close they might as well have been glued together, and Éponine felt nausea rise, threatening to swallow her. 

She gulped, and automatically backed away. The single little flare of hope that Cosette had instilled within her had been abruptly extinguished, and she was back in the dark, where she belonged. It was her problem to always fall for bright people with summer in their hearts, who treated with wariness the shadows Éponine slept in. Yet the alternative - dating people like her - was so much worse.

Her disastrous fling with Montparnasse had proven that. The only joy that affair had given her was the savage satisfaction of enraging her father. He called her a slut and a whore and threw her out of the house. He always did when he was drunk, and she always came back when she was broke. It worked out somehow.

But this - Marius's hands in Cosette's hair, their foreheads touching - this was not something that would ever work out. Éponine didn't even know who to be jealous of, she only knew the universe had betrayed her in the most spectacular of ways. This absurd predicament was the stuff of soap operas. Marius, at least, had never pretended to like her as more than a friend. Cosette, on the other hand? Had it been pity or boredom that had motivated her actions that morning?

Éponine was better off not knowing. She backed away from the door, and bumped into both of her co-leaders.

Enjolras barely noticed. He was squeezing past the barricade and striding over to interrogate the returned, no doubt to demand details. Combeferre saw her expression, and with a glance outside, put two and two together with lightning speed. For a guy who failed to notice how Courfeyrac hung on his every word, he was good at deciphering romantic scenarios.

'Ah,' he said. 'Are you all right?'

She shook her head.

'He'll see you any minute, so are you going to go and speak to him, or find somewhere quiet to sort it out?'

'The second one. You know, I think I might sleepwalk.'

'What?'

'If I murdered people in my sleep it would explain why I'm getting such shitty karma without knowing why.'

'I wouldn't have thought you'd be the sort of person who believed in karma.'

'I'm not. Don't say you saw me.'

He smiled sympathetically. 'I won't. And Éponine - '

'Yeah?'

'I daresay Cosette has a lot of thinking to do. And I wouldn't make any promises about the outcome. I will say this, though. She wouldn't do anything unless she didn't mean it.'

It was kindly meant, even if it did not reassure her in the slightest.

 

Grantaire had missed his friends. The perilous experiences they'd shared had forged bonds between him and his fellow escapees, yet they were still not the type of people he got along best with. Marius was wildly too earnest, while Musichetta's Essex upbringing bled through to her personality. That was not to say that either lacked courage or conviction, only that he could never talk to them about anything _other_ than the apocalypse. Common interests were a little too thin on the ground for small talk to work properly.

What he hadn't expected was the possibility of his friends missing him. It was a pleasant surprise, to, having carefully extracted himself from Courfeyrac's rib-crushing hug, find himself face-to-face with a beaming Joly.

'Is this stuff true? You stole top secret uber-confidential information and escaped in their own trucks? That is _awesome_.'

'You wouldn't believe the sacrifices we had to make,' said Grantaire, tugged into another embrace. 'I grew potatoes. It was grim.'

Joly began to ask something, but Grantaire's attention was suddenly diverted by the appearance of a scarlet jacket.

'So, you're back.' Enjolras said brusquely. 'Camp life not meet your expectations?'

It was no better a greeting than Grantaire deserved, really, not after the terms they'd parted on. He was tempted to be sincere, catch him off guard with an admission of his own failings, yet he resisted in favour of a more typical response.

'Are you kidding, it was like a five star hotel. Free horoscopes, agricultural education, organic tomatoes.' _And it was safe too, you could feel it. Safe, secure and so boring without you to argue with_. 'But yeah, dull. At least here you have the threat of imminent death to keep you on your toes.'

Courfeyrac and Joly stiffened, and he instantly realised he'd touched on something sensitive. Fatalities were hardly a rare occurrence; from their awkwardness he gauged it must have been very recent or especially devastating.

'Shit,' he said, because he had no filter whatsoever on what came tumbling out of his mouth. 'Who…?'

'Azelma,' Enjolras said heavily.

Fuck, _Azelma?_ No, that couldn't be right. That was too harsh, for the little girl that would never see again a world without zombies; for Enjolras, trying so desperately to hold things together; for Éponine, who must be shattered by the loss.

Anger rose in Grantaire's chest, a burning hot hatred for Javert and whoever else had been responsible for creating the virus. He was not the type to throw himself into a cause, to believe wholeheartedly in something that could fail so easily, only now he had no choice. Javert had to be stopped, he _had_ to; life was unlivable as it was. 

'Oh my god,' Marius had finally released Cosette. ''Ponine - is she OK? I have to see her.'

'Éponine's all right,' Cosette said hastily. 'But, uh, it might be best if I speak to her first. She's not in a great place right now, and there's something I have to talk to her about.' She nodded a quick greeting to Grantaire, and with a last squeeze of Marius's hand, she hurried inside. 

The little crowd began to disperse. Joly was explaining to a confused Musichetta who Azelma and Éponine were, and Courfeyrac was hugging Marius now that Cosette had left him. Grantaire found himself in step with Enjolras as they walked back inside.

'I know you live to be annoying, but I didn't want you to get the wrong impression,' Enjolras began awkwardly. 'Our differences aside, I _am_ glad you've returned.'

'Well, yeah. We do have a ton of top secret files that we haven't a hope of decrypting ourselves. And this place is oddly homely for Hell on Earth - after all there's nothing quite like social justice debates over breakfast. I'm sentimental enough to hug you as well, O Dear Leader, only you're not the sort.'

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. 'I shared a room with Courfeyrac for three months. If I wasn't the hugging sort when I started I am now.'

'I still can't picture it,' Grantaire said, because he was made up of equal parts evil and lonely. Enjolras rolled his eyes. His hand closing on Grantaire's bicep, he pulled him into an embrace.

If Enjolras had not been so determined to prove a point, it would have been the most horrifically awkward experience of Grantaire's entire life. As it was, it still felt weird, given that the two bad barely touched in the past. Grantaire's face was smushed into Enjolras's shirt, which magically did not smell of grime or sweat of any of the fragrances that clung to Grantaire's clothes. And yet it was comfortable and exhilarating and _fuck_ , Enjolras must be able to feel through his shirt the jitterbug that Grantaire's heart was doing.

It was better not to fret, better just to stand there and savour a moment that would never happen again. Enjolras was warm and solid to the touch, a million miles away from the cold marble he resembled. Grantaire understood what people meant when they talked of having fiery blood: Enjolras was Vesuvius, and Grantaire would go through an escape twice as harrowing if it meant he never had to leave his arms again.

Enjolras released him far too soon. 'There,' he said, in a strangely affronted way, 'I can hug.'

With an extreme effort, Grantaire feigned nonchalance and gave a careless shrug. 'OK, you win. Scoreboard still reads _Enjolras: 1, Grantaire: 900_.'

'I was right about the camps.'

'Yeah, but I went undercover and got secret info, so I still get that one.'

Enjolras snorted with laughter, and it hit Grantaire that they were actually talking about something in a civilized manner that didn't involve yelling or taking sides or real conflict of any kind. It was rather pleasant, yet he still opted for a conversation topic that would ruin the mood for certain. It was a query that might be better directed at somebody he knew liked him, such as Joly or Bossuet, only he wanted to know now and he was never very smart when it came to taking risks.

'Er, I wanted to ask what happened with Azelma?'

There was no reply for a few minutes. Enjolras looked to be pondering his answer, finding the right words. That, or he was suddenly very interested in the stairs they were climbing.

'It was a night attack,' was the eventual reply. 'They broke through the first floor windows, and…'

For once, Grantaire let something drop. Requesting a more detailed account would be unfair, nor did he want to hear one. He could already imagine the horror and confusion such an assault would cause. The terror of his own experience, all the anxiety of their flight, lessened in comparison.

At the fourth floor, Enjolras paused. 'I'm stopping here. I daresay you'll want to check out your room? We left it as it was. You'll be able to get changed.'

Grantaire had to look down at himself to remember he was still wearing his camp uniform. He had become so accustomed to the jumpsuit that he barely registered that it was there. 'Oh, yeah.'

'Take care of yourself. Sounds like you've had a rough day.'

He couldn't see himself, but Grantaire was pretty sure he reddened, if the heat in his face was any indication. Muttering something along the lines of ' _thanks, you too'_ he nodded goodbye and retired hastily upstairs. Nice as it was to have an interaction that didn't involve yelling, it had left him feeling rather out of control. Angry Enjolras he was used to, Righteous, irritated and incredulous Enjolras were each a piece of cake. But an Enjolras that hugged people?

He was going to have to hunt around the offices for some more booze.

 

Éponine went to the first hiding place she could think of, which was also the worst place in the entire college. The second floor supply room was just as dark and cluttered as she remembered, a comforting burrow of a space where she could hug her knees and let herself cry.

Thénardiers were not supposed to weep. The only recollection she had of seeing her mother do so was when they were playing a hoax on some kindly Samaritan in hope of scoring some monetary support. When she was younger, Éponine had been encouraged to cry; as to see a child so distraught would hit people where it hurt and encourage them to give generously. Once she ceased to be young and cute enough for this ploy to be effective she would be chided and slapped for her tears.

Yet she cried now, more bitterly than ever before. It was stupid and demeaning and _pathetic_ to cry over this when so much worse had happened, only she had loved Marius for so long and needed Cosette so much. To have some kind of happiness dangled before her and then snatched away was the last straw. Cosette had not made Azelma's death better, just briefly bearable, and now that was gone too and Éponine was alone again.

Her fingernails dug painfully into her legs, great heaving sobs racked her body as she gasped for breath, and she wished all kind of evil things; for Marius to be dead, for Cosette to suffer, for the world to end then and there and kill them all at the same time. 

The door opened without warning. Éponine flinched violently away from the light, not daring to look up until it was shut again. She kicked herself inwardly; of course Cosette would know to find her here.

'Hey,' Cosette said, a tiny voice in the dark. 'I wanted to talk to you.'

'I'm not sure I want to hear it.' Éponine was getting glaring déjà vu. This scene had happened before, only this time she was upset because Marius was present, when previously it had been the opposite.

She could remember now all the things she disliked about Cosette, the constant sweetness, innocence and infuriating naivety that combined to make the most unbearable person in the world.

A person, who was currently doing her best to appeal to her good side.

'Please, just listen. I care about you, and I don't want you to think that this morning was charity or manners or my making do because my boyfriend was gone. I didn't think he was coming back, and I wanted to commit to you - '

That was all Éponine could bear to hear. 'But he _has_ come back, and I'm sure he was completely faithful and took all sorts of risks to be with you again. You two are the perfect couple, your love is predestined by the stars or some shit and you should be with each other and have impossibly cute babies called Rain and Petal and Granola if it's a boy. Just because I'm fucking unhappy doesn't mean you have to swan in and fix things. So go and choose the right person and let me wallow in peace and quiet.'

''Ponine, I- '

' _Don't call me that_.' Eyes stinging, Éponine leapt up and yanked the door open. She was through it in an instant, profoundly grateful that the lack of lighting within the supply room had prevented Cosette from seeing her tears.

 

She slept in her own bed that night, in a room that was too empty and too quiet. Down at the other end of the college, Grantaire lay awake for hours, unable to sleep without hearing the rustle of wind on canvas. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I say A-Z I mean the London street directory of that name, in case there's any confusion.
> 
> To any non-UK people, Ukip is a rather racist right-wing political party. (Which thankfully has done very badly in the recent election)
> 
> At this point it might be smart to mention that I love my characters too much to deprive them of happy endings, I just make them suffer for it. (Aka hang in there, Eponine)
> 
>  
> 
> And lastly, how can BBC Sherlock exist simultaneously with a Les Mis au, when in the Sherlock episode 'The Empty Hearse' Mycroft takes their parents to see the West End production of the musical? I don't know, I'm just gonna yell 'artistic licence' if anyone brings that up.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'I want to talk.'
> 
> Éponine fixed her gaze on a smudge on the wall. 'I don't.'

Musichetta was the first person Grantaire saw next morning, emerging sleepily from what had been Jehan's bedroom next door. She too had ditched the camp uniform: somebody (he was going to guess Courfeyrac) had given her a loose tie-die T-shirt, and she had on some baggy mens' jeans.

'Morning,' he said, a slightly guilty feeling nagging at him. He'd more or less abandoned her last night, when really as one of the few people she knew he ought to have stuck by her. She hadn't seemed to mind, though, in fact she'd spent the majority of the previous evening talking to Bossuet and Joly.  

'Morning,' she replied, quite cheerfully. 'You sleep OK?'

'Not fantastically. Kinda feels strange to be back. Not complaining, though.'

'Your friends are cool. I see what you mean about the blond guy, he's… intense. He's hot, don't get me wrong, I just feel like a lot of it is due to how intimidating he is.'

'Mm.'

'So, is breakfast soon? Do you do the scheduled meal thing or the each-to-their own thing?'

'We have a roster I'll have you know. Word of warning, though - it's Bahorel and Combeferre on duty this morning. Combeferre is, ah, _intrigued_ by chemical experimentation, and Bahorel, though the best cook we have, likes to embrace the unconventional.'

'Grantaire, before I got to camp I was trying to catch pigeons. It was that, or eat my friend's dog.'

'Point taken. So, how are you finding the college itself?'

'Clean. Surprisingly so, actually. I expected boys to make more mess.'

Torn between pointing out that Feuilly was the tidiest person on the planet, that gender didn't dictate tidiness and that two members of the group were female, Grantaire chose none of the available options and muttered that he was glad she liked it. 

'Oh, and I gave the backpack and USB to Enjolras last night. Hopefully they'll have made a start.'

She wasn't wrong. When the two arrived downstairs for breakfast a haggard Feuilly greeted them, explaining that unfortunately they had no food.

'We finished the last of our stash yesterday evening,' he explained. 'And the council were up all night sorting through the camp stuff.'

'The Council?' Grantaire wiggled his eyebrows. 'What's that when it's at home?'

'Oh, we elected leaders. Someone,' a smile tugged his lips, 'was making a fuss about assumed authority, so we elected Enjolras, Combeferre and Éponine. They stayed up all night with Courfeyrac - he was working on the encryptions.'

'Éponine?'

'Now you say it, she wasn't around for the detective squad. Sleeping, I expect.'

'I was referring to her being on your council thingy,' said Grantaire. 'But yeah, if you voted for her.'

'I don't see why that's surprising,' said Feuilly mildly.

'Yay for democracy, can we return to the bit where there's no food?' Musichetta was pouting ever so slightly, though she did have a point.

He coughed. 'Like I said, we're out. They were supposed to be deciding where to go yesterday; only with you turning up they got distracted. We might be able to send someone out later today.'

'Failing that, we can draw lots and eat the weakest person,' Grantaire suggested morbidly.

Feuilly shrugged, and was promptly whisked off by Bahorel. Grantaire heard the phrase 'Molotov cocktail' and felt faintly jealous of the conversation.

He sighed, and looked at Musichetta. 'Do you want to search the counselor's office for sweets?'

'Could that invitation sound any more appealing?' she rolled her eyes, but followed him all the same.

 

Cosette was standing outside Éponine's room when she opened her door that morning. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Éponine's reaction was to slam it in her face.

She was too tired for this shit. Her night had been frequently interrupted by disturbing dreams that left her feeling mentally drained and her skin cold and clammy. She wasn't capable of winning another fight, and couldn't run away either.  Cosette had trapped her in her room, and barring the possibility of climbing out the window she had no means of retreat.

'Hey,' Cosette shouted through the door, knocking smartly. 'Can I come in?'

'Go away,' Éponine called, backing away from the door and sitting down on her sofa, facing towards the wall. _Breathe_ , she told herself, and willed her pulse to stay steady.

Cosette evidently interpreted this to mean something different, because there came the sound of the door opening, and tentative footsteps as the girl approached the couch.

'I want to talk.'

Éponine fixed her gaze on a smudge on the wall. 'I don't.'

'We don't have to fight.'

'Hey, I didn't start it.'

'It's not about who started it.'

'Talk like you're my mother, why don't you?'

'Can we _please_ be adults about this?'

Éponine swiveled round. Cosette was looking somewhat worse for wear: she too had dark circles beneath her eyes and her hair hung in dank clumps around her face. Infuriatingly, she was still beautiful.

'You want to know why we can't discuss this like adults?' Éponine snarled. 'Fine. Because you were the _one fucking thing_ stopping me spiraling into inescapable misery or some bullshit, and now I have to listen to you telling me that you think I'm great and all but Marius is the one you're meant to be with. And I can't do that, I can't.

'And I'm mad at myself, for thinking that I could have one good thing that wouldn't be spoilt somehow. But if there's anything I've learned, it's not to expect that much because the world is simply not that great. And I've always dealt with it. At college other girls were worried about UCAS applications and university fees, I was terrified that when I got home there would be a new bruise on my sister's face or that I would get fired from my shitty minimum wage job because I was always exhausted from running my father's heists. This world has done nothing but shit on me and all I have ever asked it was for certain members of my family to be safe. I tried to be a good friend to Marius even if I couldn't be to you, but I am _so tired_ of people claiming to care about me.'

The other girl made a muffled sound of pain, and Éponine ploughed on.

'I don't want you to date me out of pity, or because you think I deserve it. I really don't. I have so much shit and it's unfair to ask you to deal with it, so I won't. Just _go_. Please.'

Cosette couldn't speak for a moment. When she did, it was gently, as though Éponine were a fragile bird that might take flight at any moment. 'I don't want to be with you because I feel sorry for you, I want to be with you because I love you.'

The words rang in Éponine's ears, growing more hollow by the second. 'You _love_ me? How can you say that?'

'Because I'm eighteen and I can vote and drink and sign my own permission forms and all of that is irrelevant because you're all I see when I walk into a room.'

'You thought you loved Marius, too.'

Cosette threw her hands up in the air. 'Marius is nice, and funny and agreeable. He could make me smile and I am very fond of him. Only - and this is going to make me sound horrible - he was easy to like, because I always knew he liked me back. Being with him was fun and safe because he's a cute dork, only, my heart doesn't do the _thing_ when I look at him.'

'All right, so he wasn't The One. What does that - '

'I'm not done. When I'm in Marius's company, my mind is comfortably sleepy. Everything made sense and I knew what I was doing. But when I'm around you, I'm wide awake. I haven't a clue what I'm supposed to do and it's wonderful. I thought how I felt, the alertness, was just due to you not liking me, and then I got to know you and I realised it wasn't that.

'Marius made me feel like a certain type of person, and it was nice. I liked being that. Only you - you make me feel like I could be anyone. So yes, I love you. And if you won't have me, I understand. But if you think it's worth a shot, then, well… I'm here.'

Éponine kissed her. She leaned upwards, sliding a hand along Cosette's jaw to lower her head and fit her lips against her own. Her heart was racing the same way it had when they'd first kissed, only this time it was because there was a possibility that Cosette meant what she said.  If she did, if there was a chance that they could have this - soft sweet kisses and hungry ones that made her spine shiver and toes curl - Éponine would take the risk of further heartbreak.

For a long minute after they broke away she just stared at her, willing her brain to absorb every freckle and detail of her face. Cosette was golden leaves and autumn bonfires, cute at first and then burning out of control, scorching everything she touched.

'I can't be your future,' Éponine said, because it was one of the True Things she couldn't and wouldn't ignore. 'You know that.'

'I don't want a future. I want now.' Cosette's hands were small and soft and _strong_. 'We're in a zombie apocalypse, I'm not quite planning my wedding yet.'

Somehow, that was enough. The last of Éponine's resistance crumbled, and she pulled Cosette into a tight hug, relishing in the knowledge that she wouldn't need to be in a hurry to let go.

 

The council did not waste time. Around noon, Gavroche was made a tour of the college, gathering everybody to a meeting room on the fourth floor. By then Musichetta had seen all there was to be seen, and she and Grantaire were both anxious to know how their findings had been received.

'Marble statues would be nice,' she was saying, as they started down the corridor. 'To mark our contribution to ending the apocalypse.'

Grantaire's laugh tailed off as they came in sight of a forlorn Marius, waiting outside the meeting room, his eyes downcast.

'Hey,' he said, as they drew near. 'You guys all right?'

Musichetta frowned. 'We're fine, are you?'

'Well,' Marius heaved a sigh. 'Cosette broke up with me.'

'What a bitch,' said Musichetta succinctly.

Grantaire was as confused as Marius looked. He would have liked to ask what level of divine intervention had severed the dream couple; only he wasn't sure how to phrase the enquiry in a way that wouldn't be glaringly tactless.

Inside the room the reason behind Marius's despair became clear: Éponine and Cosette were sitting so closely that they were practically spilling onto each other's chairs. Cosette was playing with a strand of her girlfriend's hair. She went a little pink when she saw Marius enter, but said nothing.

'Is everyone here?' Enjolras asked, from where he was sitting at the head of the table. The jersey he was wearing was just a little too tight, causing Grantaire to accidentally bash his knee against a table leg in a particularly painful maneuver.

Rubbing it gingerly, he sat between Musichetta and Bossuet. In hindsight it was a mistake; Joly and his boyfriend both seemed rather attached to the new arrival and she in her turn reciprocated the interest. Attraction was a disgusting thing, Grantaire thought, sandwiched between giggles and eye contact and private jokes in the making.

After confirming that everyone was, indeed, present, Enjolras started the meeting. He began by outlining the situation as Grantaire knew it, which caused no shortage of outrage around the room. Some were openly horrified, others spellbound. The worst was still to come - what Enjolras proceeded to say rendered everybody speechless.

'Courfeyrac was working for hours on the memory stick they recovered, and was eventually able to decrypt its contents. It confirms what the paper files have told us. The apocalypse needs maintaining in order to keep going - otherwise it would end. The reason it hasn't yet is because Javert hasn't quite been accepted as the saviour of the British people. Once he has, a scientist can flip a switch and bravo, the epidemic ends as mysteriously as it began.'

'How, though?' asked Cosette, through the stunned stillness. 'How can they keep it going?'

This time, Combeferre did the honours. 'It isn't a very strong virus; its success rate is actually a lot lower than we thought. Also, as it was artificially created, it isn't as proficient at mutating as natural viruses. Left alone, it would die out quickly, as human immune systems adapted to combat it. The reason it hasn't must be because they're developing new strains of it and releasing them at regular intervals. Do bear in mind some of this is guesswork, as the records we got weren't always explicit, but that's our strongest hypothesis.'

Feuilly now spoke up. 'Are we absolutely sure they're re-releasing it? That would be a tactically unwise assumption to make, if it's based on little evidence.'

'Unfortunately we do,' Enjolras said grimly. 'One of the few things we are certain of is that they've been testing versions of the new viruses on hand-picked camp citizens and then dropping them off in highly populated areas. Some of these later zombies are capable of basic brain functions, which could explain why some appear smarter than others - and the attack on the first floor.'

They were testing on camp citizens. Grantaire felt sick. He hadn't thought to worry about Mabeuf, or even Plaits and Bangles, assuming that as long as they kept to the rules they'd be safe. From their horrified expressions, he gathered that Musichetta and Marius had reached similar conclusions.

'So what are we going to do?' called Bahorel, over the angry chatter that was rising in the room. 'We _are_ doing something, right?'

'Of course,' Enjolras promised. 'We have a very rough plan, and as it involves all of you it's not fair to finalise it before you get to hear the details.'

'Sounds good to me,' Éponine said, evidently forgetting that she was probably meant to have been involved in the initial plan making. 'Fire away.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My exams for this year are over, (yay!) which means that I am no longer in a perpetual state of stress and have time to write again.
> 
> This installment is kind of short, because I altered my outline somewhere around chapter 11, but more should follow soon.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'No, I like you. As in, having a crush?'

'Simple' was one word Grantaire might use to describe Enjolras's assault plan to end the apocalypse. 'Suicidal' was another.

'Just to be certain, is the idea that we make it to the finish, or that we nobly sacrifice ourselves safe in the knowledge that we tried?'

'It's entirely optional,' Enjolras reminded him. 'The larger our numbers, the stronger we'll be, but it's up to everyone whether they want to come or not. Those who wish to remain at Corinth Park may do so, without any hard feelings.'

'I said the plan was stupid, I didn't say I wouldn't be a part of it.' A smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. 'It's the best awful plan we have.'

'We're thrilled that you approve,' said Enjolras wearily. 'However if we could know who's willing, it would make planning a lot easier.'

'All those in favour, raise your hands?' Combeferre instructed, lifting his own.

Everybody complied at his or her own pace, one after another like the world's worse Mexican wave. Last to decide were the girls. Cosette was waiting for Éponine, and Éponine was chewing her lip and contemplating her brother. Gavroche was going all-out on the puppy eyes, which couldn't have helped the situation.

Grantaire understood the dilemma. On the one hand, bringing a kid into a war zone on a suicidal mission would directly and obviously endanger him. On the other,  if she brought him along, Éponine would be able to protect her brother, and remaining alone in the college was hardly any safer.

'All right,' she said slowly, lifting her hand skywards. 'I'm in.'

Gavroche let out a hiss of satisfaction, and Cosette's hand quickly followed suit.

Enjolras regarded the room with satisfaction. 'Thank you. As I said before, we won't be going for a couple of days at least. We'll need supplies of various kinds, and we're out of food at the moment, which is something that needs rectifying as soon as possible.'

Dismissed, everyone rose, talking amongst themselves. Grantaire hung back, unsure which crowd to join and whether they would want him there or simply tolerate his presence. He might have tagged along with Bossuet and Joly, only they were deep in conversation with Musichetta, and he couldn't think of a kind way to disturb them. The only other option was Marius, and bad as it sounded, Grantaire couldn't quite bring himself to be a shoulder to cry on.

In the centre of the room, the council were already gathering together to discuss the supply run. The last person to leave the room, Grantaire caught a few snippets of their conversation.

'What about Courf?'

'No, he was up all night, and we'll need him to get into the office computer.'

They were evaluating the individual worth of each member of the group. Grantaire was quick to get out of earshot, sensing it was not the best time to eavesdrop.

He wandered around outside for some time, uncertain of where to go. His first thought was to join whatever witty conversation was being held in the rec room. It was not until he was right outside the door that he realised he wasn't in the mood for joviality.

The mural in his room was still unfinished. He started towards the stairs, examples of possible additions floating through his head. It was tempting to paint Azelma, with flowers around her, like that girl in The Hunger Games. He felt like Éponine would be mad about it, but it would still be the right thing to do.

Yet when he came in sight of the stairs, the strength seemed to leave his legs and even the idea of climbing was impossible. He sat on them instead, drawing his knees to his chest and trying to identify why all of a sudden he felt odd inside, as though his internal organs had decided to mix things up by switching places for the day.

It might be all the changes. Absurd as it was to imagine that everything would continue just as it was while he was gone, in a way he had thought that it would. To arrive back to a group so different - Azelma gone, Cosette and Éponine together - left him feeling like he'd come home to find his house redecorated, without any warning. 

He didn't have long to get used to it, either. Their mission had altered; it was no longer 'stay alive' but 'save Britain.' Very much a task the Social Justice Warriors were suited to, even if not all of their friends were. The proposed plan was ridiculous, only they were so angry it might just work.

'Hey, you all right?'

Grantaire glanced up, and was so surprised that he slipped right off the stairs and onto the floor. Enjolras was there, bending down to sit beside him, radiating waves of companionable concern.

His cheeks a magnificent shade of scarlet, Grantaire scrambled back to his original seat.

'It must be weird,' Enjolras remarked, because apparently he could read Grantaire's mind now and wow that would actually be the worst thing in the world if he could. 'Getting back somewhere safe, and being asked immediately to put your life on the line again.'

'Safety is relative,' was all Grantaire could think to say in response. 'At camp, I wasn't going to get eaten by zombies, but the possibility of being shot or experimented on was much higher.' He craned his neck to look Enjolras in the eye. 'Did you manage to sort out a food mission?'

'Yeah. It's the first time we've had the council choose people, instead of volunteering. It doesn't feel right to order people into dangerous situations.' He sighed. 'And it gets tactical as well. Like Combeferre wanted to send Cosette, because she's resourceful and good in a fight, but Éponine wouldn't hear of it. After everything Éponine's been through, it's hardly fair to her.'

Even though Grantaire understood what Enjolras meant, the reminder that everyone had someone attached to them stung. It was what prompted him to say, 'That's easy, then. Send me. I'm hardly your most useful asset, and if anyone's dispensable, I am.'

'That's not true,' Enjolras protested weakly.

'I appreciate the sentiment, but it is. Can't send Éponine for obvious reasons, you need your Oxford pals for ending the apocalypse, Cosette's ruled out, Joly and Bossuet won't leave each other and Musichetta's new. That leaves just Bahorel and Marius. Marius is adorable but hopeless, and you can't send Bahorel by himself. And it's not like anyone would miss me.'

'You don't mean that.'

'Kinda do. I'm not trying to be self-pitying here. It's OK; everyone has other priorities. I'm not upset about it.'

'I don't,' said Enjolras, turning a little red himself. 'Have other priorities, I mean.'

'Oh yes, I'm sure our great ability to manufacture conflict has left a lasting impression.' He himself felt by the words, because a little, stupid part of Grantaire had hoped that it had. As a rule he tried not to give the subject too much thought, but it was so difficult when he was wired to notice Enjolras in everything that he did. The constant state of awareness was so wearing it was appealing, if dangerous, to imagine it wasn't unrequited.

'I'm not going to say you aren't frustrating,' Enjolras allowed. 'That doesn't mean I don't care about you. So, you're not into the same stuff as me, that doesn't mean you're useless. Your art, for example, it's amazing - I could never do that.'

'I never said that I felt nobody saw me as a person,' Grantaire elaborated. If he was going to ruin whatever civil terms they were on, he might as well do it properly. 'Just that nobody _really_ wants me around. And before you immediately try to make me feel better, there's a difference between not wanting someone to die and being emotionally invested their continued existence. Can you honestly say that anyone here is better off because I'm here?'

'Easily. Without you, Cosette might have died at the mall and Marius and Musichetta would still be at camp. And we wouldn't even have Corinth Park.'

'Yeah, but you would have sent someone else on that mission, who might not have made the stupid mistake of splitting the group up. Marius wouldn't have been at the camp at the first place. You're all smart; you'd have investigated the college by yourselves. So that's invalid.'

'All right.' Enjolras squared his jaw. _'I'm_ glad you're here.'

'Oh, no.' When Grantaire felt desperate he often responded by laughing, and now he could feel giggles bubbling up inside his chest. 'No, do not play the Benevolent Leader card. Seriously, now is not the time.'

'I wasn't going to do anything of the sort.' Was it his imagination, or did Enjolras look a little pink around the ears? 'I'm happy you're here because I, ah, like you.'

'Well I didn't think you hated me.' And even then, he hadn't been sure.

A sigh. 'No, I _like_ you. As in, having a crush? I'm really sorry, I thought you could tell.'

Grantaire's mind went into free-fall as every one of his assumptions was crushed into pieces around him. All this time, he'd been inwardly swooning at so much as a glimpse of a red leather jacket, only to find that Enjolras was crushing on him? Enjolras not only cared about how he felt and admired his paintings but _felt some level of attraction to him?_ He tried to speak, but his vocal chords were in a state of shock and refused to work properly. The only noise he could muster was a sort of gargling that sounded so grotesque that he stopped immediately.

'I didn't want to make it a big thing.' Enjolras buried his face in his hands. 'Courfeyrac's been giving me hell about it. I should say; I'm not expecting anything from you and I know it's a lot to suddenly dump on someone. I just couldn't listen to you thinking that you don't matter to anyone when, well, you matter to me. A lot.'

He swallowed. 'OK. I'm going to go and pretend I never said any of that, and in a few hours we can go back to being vague acquaintances that sometimes fight.' He got shakily to his feet.

 _No,_ Grantaire wanted to shout, _sit the fuck back down so I can tell you how I feel._  But he never got the words out. He got up to try and follow Enjolras, only he rose so quickly that the blood rushed to his head and he stumbled into a wall. Then  to add to what was already an incredibly frustrating moment, Combeferre came round the corner, without a clue that he might be interrupting anything.

'Bahorel and Feuilly have said yes,' he reported to Enjolras, who immediately latched onto a possible escape from the situation. 'They'll be ready in an hour or so.'

'Great,' Enjolras babbled. 'I, uh, want to look over some plans, could we do that?'

And before Grantaire's voice was working again, Enjolras had swept down the corridor and out of sight, a confused Combeferre in tow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another super-short chapter - this one was going to be short however I played it.
> 
> I have also entirely finished a notebook, so there might be some delay before the next chapter while I find another one. (I write it out longhand and then type it up & edit)


	15. Chapter 15

Over the next few days, Grantaire didn't so much as catch a glimpse of Enjolras. They were never in a room at the same time, or if they were, Enjolras would be surrounded by people. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were acting as civil guard dogs; the time Grantaire tried knocking on Enjolras's bedroom door it was Combeferre who politely asked him to stop.

One wouldn't think it would be that hard, Grantaire thought gloomily, to track somebody down to yell _I like you, you idiot_ at them until they got the message. But then again, clear communication might only make things worse. Enjolras might not have meant a word of what he said, his confession could all have been part of a bizarre scheme to cheer up a friend. Sympathy was hardly his strong point, and it was just bad luck that Grantaire was half in love with him.

Or, maybe it was just the painful truth that Grantaire had missed his chance, and inadvertently encouraged Enjolras to stifle whatever feelings he had.

'I think you broke him,' Éponine told Grantaire, the evening before the planned assault on the Shard. 'I'm serious. I never thought Greek god types could act as humiliated as he's doing right now.'

'Probably depends which god,' said Grantaire. 'Didn't Zeus like, try to murder foetus Athena and her mum because he heard she'd be wiser than him? And then she was born anyway. That must have been awkward.'

'You're avoiding the point.' Éponine lifted her paintbrush and added a light blue shadow along the outer edge of a crescent moon. Grantaire had spent his free time - when he wasn't trying to talk to Enjolras - finishing what he'd started on his bedroom walls. Éponine had agreed to let him paint Azelma, in return for the inclusion of a 'guest section' that she was allowed to do herself.

'So what if I am? It's a super depressing point.'

'How do you think the rest of us feel? He's been so painfully obvious and to be quite honest you have too, and then you go and blow it. I'm in debt one cereal bar to Bahorel now.'

'You bet with food?'

'Because money has so much value right now?'

'OK, OK. And what do you mean, _he's_ been obvious? How?'

'Oh, I don't know. Maybe because he's done nothing but rave about how good your painting is, and then you run off to camp and he makes a fucking council because he can't accept that you won't come back and still wants your approval. It's some romance novel bullshit.'

'You have blue on your nose,' he said. 'Also, how do _you_ get to lecture me on how to handle liking someone?'

She let out a delighted giggle. 'Before you insult the train wreck that was my love life, please remember that I happen to be dating a very attractive girl who could pound you into the ground.'

'She won't, though,' said Grantaire complacently. 'She likes me.'

'Didn't always, though.' Éponine scraped at her nose, and merely succeeded in spreading the half-dried paint further. 'First day at the college, she thought you were some dodgy dude who'd murder us in our sleep.'

'You all did, though.'

'I wouldn't go as far as that. Maybe it briefly occurred to us, but I know creepy guys and you are so not one of them.'

'Hey, I could be.'

'Grantaire, you have a tattoo of a hummingbird and can't bring yourself to be rude to children. That's some Despicable Me shit.'

'Never seen it.'

'Don't bother.' For the highest section of the wall, she dragged a chair over to stand on. Grantaire was adding highlights to a peony clutched in Azelma's small hands.

'So, you ready for the big attack?'

'As in, am I looking forward to a grisly death that will mean I never have to speak to Enjolras again? Not especially.'

'Ha ha. Hey this is fun, I get to laugh at you and all your drama.'

He sighed. 'I'm glad someone finds it funny.'

Her grin was a little wolfish. 'Someone should.'

 

'This is the worst theatre department I have ever been in.' Courfeyrac gazed around in abject horror.

'Theatre? Aren't you a maths student?' Cosette frowned.

'I did other things.'

'Feuilly got the ingredients for fake blood, so we shouldn't need much makeup,' Combeferre reminded him. 'I think we're going for the fresh corpse vibe.'

'Just out of scientific interest, do we know if this ploy works?' Bossuet asked, a little more casually than was strictly necessary.

'It's this or walking through London holding signs advertising how alive and tasty we are,' said Enjolras.

'Loosely translated: you all agreed to this plan so don't you dare get cold feet now that makeup's involved,' Combeferre supplied. Bossuet shrugged, sheepish. 'All right people; strip.'

Musichetta, Éponine and Cosette retreated to a side room. They too had costumes compromised of ripped clothing, but with shirts slightly more intact in the chest area. Grantaire, suddenly self-conscious to be changing in front of so many people, envied them.

His outfit was simple enough. Regular jeans - thank god, he wouldn't have been able to deal with being in nothing but boxers when Enjolras was down the other end of the room - and a ripped and bloodstained T-shirt. Hopefully that, some fake wounds and a bit of acting would be enough to convince any havoc wreaking zombie hordes that he was one of them. It was a terrible plan, but it would have to do.

When everybody had got changed, Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Joly made the rounds, doing their best to ensure that everyone looked as dead as they could. Courfeyrac was volunteering his makeup skill, Combeferre his critical eye and Joly his medical knowledge of which wounds would be most convincing where.

'We look like we could be the ensemble for a show,' Courfeyrac mused, dabbing a mixture of glue and Worcester sauce onto Musichetta's cheekbone.

'Of course,' said Grantaire. 'Zombies: The Musical. Coming soon to a theatre near you.'

Courfeyrac sighed. 'Nobody appreciates the dramatic arts.'

 

Gavroche wound up more convincing than any of them. Artfully bloodstained by the boy himself, his costume's strategic rips looked far more genuine than those Combeferre had manufactured. Once he too had been subjected to the makeup brush, Gavroche resembled a corpse to  a rather unnerving level.

Other supplies were also passed out. In addition to all the rags and fake blood, everyone was outfitted with up to three concealed weapons, a small plastic sachet of water and some dried fruit. Joly, Éponine and Combeferre also carried what medical materials they had left. 

'It's ten to twelve,' Feuilly said, holding up his watch arm. 'Should get going.'

'Check everything at least twice,' Bossuet advised them, adding under his breath, 'I'm still going to forget something.'

After some degree of faffing about, it seemed that they were finally ready. Enjolras led them through the building, down the stairs and past the canteen to the main exit. Grantaire was near the rear of the procession, forcing his mind to understand that this was goodbye, that they were leaving this place. Win or lose, he felt in his gut that he wouldn't be returning here. The thought brought with it an odd pang of sorrow. Corinth Park held no pleasant old memories, but the new ones were a mixed bag. At any rate, he was glad he'd spent the past weeks here, living, instead of closeted in a cosy flat trying to forget the rest of the world. For all he knew, Grantaire might have died days ago if he hadn't taken Éponine's advice to give the college a try.

'Saying goodbye?' Joly fell in step with him. 'It hasn't been bad, this place.'

'If we win, I'll write a glowing letter to the principle,' said Grantaire. _'Though as an institute of learning you dismally failed me, the facilities provided adequate shelter for myself and others during the apocalypse. I recommend you resign as head of an institute of education and rent the buildings out in times of crisis.'_

'You sound like Courfeyrac,' said Joly, in an oddly fond tone of voice. 'Hazards of keeping such company, I suppose.'

'Yay,' Grantaire replied, deadpan, and then he had an idea. 'Hey, you're my friend, right?'

'Yes.'

'So hypothetically, if I asked you to, as a favour, talk to someone - '

'Nuh-uh. I am not talking to Enjolras for you. I refuse to do favours that jeopardize my neutrality. You're an adult, talk to him yourself.'

'I can't, he's avoiding me and his friends are helping.'

'Then maybe it's best to leave him alone. Respect his boundaries. From what I've heard - which I will admit isn't much - he said some rather personal things. Why rub salt in the wound?'

Immensely grateful that the others had pulled ahead and could not hear the conversation, Grantaire said, 'No, you don't get it. There would be no rubbing of anything in anyone's wounds. I _like_ him, Joly, but he doesn't know that and I can't find a way to tell him.'

'I appreciate that's an awful predicament to be in. However, my neutrality still wins. It would be immoral to meddle in something that doesn't concern me.'

'What are you, Switzerland? Come on, you can't tell me you've never asked anyone's help in a dating scenario. How did you and Bossuet get together?'

'I asked him out.'

'And how did you meet him?'

'I was on first aid duty for a local kids' hockey club, he was an assistant coach there,' Joly grinned. 'And you know how accident-prone he is, he was constantly getting walloped by children's sticks or hit by the ball. I fixed him up a couple of times, suddenly he was my most regular patient and I thought he was cute so I asked him out. Without involving any sympathetic but powerless third parties.'

Grantaire would have retorted as cuttingly as his spontaneous sarcastic abilities allowed, but they had caught up with everyone else and were about to leave the college grounds.

'Remember,' Enjolras was saying, 'you don't gave to move slowly, just aimlessly. On occasion it's not a bad idea to break something, especially if you're faking hunger. Don't follow us too closely; zombie packs never have leaders. To save time, we'll only be acting when we're in sight of zombies. If you see one, the signal is a whistle. Not a bird call, yes Courfeyrac I mean you, a _whistle_. The Shard is within walking distance; we should easily get there before dark.'

'The most important thing is to get there,' Combeferre added. 'We should protect each other to the best of our abilities within reason, without losing sight of the main goal.'

'It's not too late to turn back, either,' continued Enjolras. His gaze moved over each person, skipping from Joly on Grantaire's right to Bossuet on Grantaire's left, as though there was nothing but empty space in between.

Nobody stirred, though Éponine's back stiffened. A small, easily startled part of Grantaire seriously considered staying behind. It was all very well to talk about going in theory, but the actual prospect of marching out into the open with only a flimsy disguise and a couple of kitchen knives to protect him was daunting to say the least. It would be so much easier to stay in college. The Dream Team didn't need him; they could end the epidemic fine by themselves.

'You all right? You look odd.' Bossuet nudged him. Grantaire blinked, and reality returned with a crash. Speculation about staying was pointless. As if there was the slightest chance he could leave this people and be content without the slightest idea of what had happened to them. As if he could leave _Enjolras_ , without ever talking to him.

He couldn't do that. Squaring his shoulders, Grantaire took a deep breath and followed Joly over the brick wall and onto the open street beyond.

 

Éponine's nerves had formed a tight knot in her chest, her fear a sour taste at the back of her throat. What felt like every five seconds she tilted her head to scan the street with forcedly vacant eyes to check for Gavroche. Predictably, her brother was having the time of his life. Freed from the confines of Corinth Park and given a role to play, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. Éponine found herself looking unconsciously for her sister as well, and felt a sharp pain every time she remembered why she couldn't see her.

Her feet started to hurt after a while. She didn't dare say anything; probably everyone had blisters. The fake blood was drying in a thick crust on her neck, and she had to resist the urge to pick at it and detach the stray strands of hair that had got themselves stuck.

They were lucky, it wasn't until they were closer to the centre of town when they had their first undead encounter. There were two zombies, sniffing over the ruins of a crashed convertible. They barely glanced up as the students shuffled past, evidently not registering them as live prey. It might be a cliché, but the movie plan was working.

Further validation came when they merged with a much larger crowd, near Liverpool Street Station. It was a tense experience, close to and surrounded by so many genuine zombies.

Her breathing very slow and shallow, Éponine concentrated on the thin blade tucked against her hip. Boxed in by an unyielding wall of decomposing bodies, she was certain that they would be able to hear her heart beating wildly in her chest, or smell the hot blood pumping through her veins. Her cover would be blown the second she made a break for it, yet it was still very difficult to resist. Éponine loathed situations like these, where fight and flight were equally useless and her only option was to endure.

Out of the other students she could see only Bahorel, standing a head taller than the rest of the crowd. Fresh panic gripped her - unspeakable things could be happening to Gavroche or Cosette, and she would never know. Deep breaths would calm her down, she knew, but when she was pretending not to breathe at all that wasn't an option. Besides, the crowd was giving off the strong stench of decay, and it was all she could do not to wrinkle her nose in disgust.

It was an enormous relief to break away from the main herd and continue southwards. Every one of their group was accounted for, and Éponine didn't think she was imagining how pale her friends were underneath their makeup.

Crossing London Bridge was bizarre. The Thames had never been so empty, nor had she ever before seen bodies washing up on the small beaches along the southern bank.

'Those aren't zombies,' Feuilly muttered. The bridge was empty; it was safe to talk. 'They wouldn't drown, and those ones weren't decapitated. So those people must have fallen in accidentally, or…'

'Jumped,' Éponine supplied dully. She stopped to peer over the parapet, down at the murky brown water churning below. The appeal was understandable. It would be so easy, and no one would know. An image came to mind, of after the epidemic, Britain being full of graveyards like those erected for the First World War. Rows upon rows of headstones, the named and nameless lying side by side and long lists of the thousands of people who were still missing.

Éponine didn't like to think how easily she could be one of those unidentified corpses floating at the mercy of the tide. If she didn't have her family, if Marius hadn't come for her. If, if.

'Hey,' Cosette caught hold of her hand, sliding their fingers together. 'You OK?'

'Fine,' Éponine gave her hand a quick squeeze. 'You?'

'A bit creeped out, I won't lie,' Cosette admitted. 'That was scary back there. Still, scary is what we signed up for.'

'Do you think we can do it?'

'I think it's dangerous to suppose anything else.'

'I don't mean motivationally. We're all going to do our best when the time comes. What I mean is, in your heart or your gut or whatever, is our best going to be good enough? Don't you look at all of this,' she gestured at the river, 'and want to give up, because there is _so much_ wrong and we're not even proper adults and how do we even go about starting to fix it when we're this tired?'

'I know what you mean,' Cosette said, because that was the wonderful thing about her. She didn't give empty promises or vague reassurances; she either understood or tried to, and Combeferre was right, damn him - Cosette never said something she didn't mean. 'I think the best thing is to remember that we're not trying to fix everything. While I'm sure Enjolras has an economic plan in mind to repair the economy and rebuild the country, all _we_ are trying to do is make it possible for more qualified people - proper tax-paying adults - to take over. We aren't trying to do it all. If that helps.'

'It does. Thank you.' Éponine kissed her girlfriend lightly on the mouth, and heard Gavroche make a gagging sound behind her.

 

Everything was going fine until they actually reached the Shard. Enjolras's extensive planning had accounted for zombies. It did not include armed guards.

Six burly men in security uniforms were blocking the entrance, each carrying firearms of formidable size. From his point of vantage around the corner, Grantaire suddenly found the prospect of storming the entrance a great deal less appealing. A few feet away, the council holding a mini conference on the matter. At least, that's what Combeferre called it - 'heated dispute' were the words Grantaire would have chosen.

'A diversion,' Éponine insisted. 'Film logic has worked so far, and that sucker gets them every time.'

'It's too risky,' objected Enjolras. 'Short of everyone running at them at once, we don't have a way of distracting them that wouldn't involve certain death for those involved.'

'What are we supposed to do instead? Call the whole thing off because we can't defeat six guards? And there will be more inside.' Éponine shook her head. 'You're supposed to be smart.'

'We could raid nearby houses for barricade material,' Combeferre offered, though he himself didn't look terribly convinced by the suggestion. 'Soldiers used to lock their shields together to block arrows. If we could find tables - '

'Which would be useless the moment they got close,' Éponine shook her head..

'What about a car?' Enjolras was gazing down the street. 'That would chase them off, and offer some protection.'

Éponine nodded, satisfied. 'That's more like it.'

A few more moments' consultation and they had a rough plan to work with. Bahorel and Gavroche kept watch on the Shard entrance, while the others searched for a suitable vehicle.

Two blocks away, Feuilly found a dumped Range Rover that would do the job. It bore the marks of multiple previous owners; the interior stank of beer and the left headlight was smashed, but was still in working order.

'It's got enough fuel for our purposes, but not much more,' he said, opening a door and peering in. 'They even left the keys for us. How thoughtful.'

At Combeferre's suggestion, they agreed to send two people: one main driver and one backup, in case the first was short and injured before they had removed the security. Bossuet volunteered to drive, and Grantaire quickly joined him to stand in reserve. Joly and Musichetta were openly stricken, imploring Bossuet to be careful, and Enjolras stared solidly at the ground to avoid Grantaire's eye. Cosette and Éponine were a little more attentive.

'R, if this is some stupid stunt to get Enjolras's attention, I will tell you now to stuff it,' Éponine growled, and he shook his head violently.

'It's not, I swear.'

'Then why are you voluntarily walking up to the gallows?'

'Who else is going to do it?' His eyes locked onto hers. He didn't have to say anything else; he could see that she understood. Whatever Enjolras said, Grantaire would always be a dispensable member of the group, and he was OK with that. It wasn't ideal, but at least he was aware of it.

With a clap on Éponine's shoulder and a hug from Cosette, he climbed into the shotgun seat of the car and closed the door. It was warm and muggy inside, and smelt worse with no form of ventilation.

'Combeferre said not to run them over if we can help it,' explained Bossuet, sticking the key into the ignition. 'And then Enjolras reminded me of the bigger picture.'

The engine rumbled to life, and the others backed away from the car to give them space.

'So,' Bossuet grinned, 'you ready?'

'Definitely not,' Grantaire answered, snapping his seatbelt on. 'Come on, then.'

Putting the vehicle into gear, Bossuet began to drive, and the Range Rover lumbered forward onto the road.

Grantaire felt like he was on a rollercoaster, at the top of the track about to plunge downwards. Only that was safe, the carriage would never leave the rails and you would be swept up again. Survival was not the purpose of this venture.

Bossuet turned right onto St Thomas Street, and started to accelerate. The security guards reacted almost instantly, moving seamlessly into a defensive position. As soon as the car was in range, they opened fire.

The upper corner of the windscreen frosted as a shot tore through it and flew over Grantaire's head. Another bullet embedded itself in the side of his seat. Heart racing, he crouched down out of sight as Bossuet turned sharply to drive directly at the security guards.

The next few moments were a blur. Grantaire flattened himself in his seat and tried not to throw up as they plunged in one direction and then another. Bossuet was throwing caution to the winds, fear making him reckless. One man he hit and sent sprawling, another he forced into a line of friendly fire.

Dodging around the edges were the other students, sticking as close as possible to the building to avoid getting hit. Grantaire's right eye tracked a blond head that could only be Enjolras's, until Bossuet sent the car reeling back the way it had come.

After what seemed like an age, the Range Rover rolled to a stop. Very slowly, Grantaire raised his head. He looked down at his body, and saw no wounds. He wriggled his toes experimentally, and could feel them without any pain.

Through a mess of broken glass, he saw two of the security guards lying crumpled on the ground. The other four had disappeared. Other backup would be coming, and soon.

'We should get going,' he said, turning to Bossuet. 'We…'

He never finished his sentence. Bossuet was staring down at his torso, observing a rapidly spreading scarlet stain with almost comical detachment.

'Look at that,' he said, his voice slurred with shock. 'I was always unlucky.'

'Shit, dude,' Grantaire unbuckled his seatbelt and scrambled awkwardly trying to find something, anything, that could help. 'Maybe compress it, y'know, try and stop the bleeding?'

Bossuet tried to say something else, but it came out as an unintelligible sound. In all the films Grantaire had seen people with gunshots were able to stammer out some famous last words. This was not the case here. Bossuet's strength was spent. With an exhausted-yet-sheepish smile, he let a breath out and crumpled in on himself, looking no longer eighteen but someone much younger - a boy really - somebody in need of protecting.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Which meant that in order to stop Enjolras doing something spectacularly stupid, Grantaire had to think of something even more stupid to throw him off.

Grantaire climbed out of the Range Rover in a daze, his head swimming. He couldn't believe that he was alive, that Bossuet wasn't, that in all their driving they'd managed not to crash into any of the bollards around the entrance.

That was not to say they hadn't hit anything. Two topiaries had been knocked over and a third had a large crack where a bullet had fractured the pot the plant was sitting in. Dirt and compost had spilled onto the pavement, mixing with fragments of glass from the smashed revolving doors.

Grantaire stepped away from the car, and reflexively looked back to check on it. He took a second to realise that it was OK to walk away and leave it undefended. Zombies were the least of Bossuet's worries now. Though it would make things ten times worse if he were to be infected by the virus. With that in mind, Grantaire doubled back to close the car doors behind him.

It was a very surreal experience to walk through the Shard's undefended entrance, hopping through where the revolving door's glass panes had been. The lobby itself was full of smoke, growing thicker by the second. Courfeyrac's part of the assault plan was coming into play; Gavroche was running to and fro, dropping handfuls of smoldering leaves behind him.

The poor visibility meant it was impossible to see numbers on either side or who was winning; people were nothing more than shadowed silhouettes.  This was more than made up for by sound, as none of the guns had silencers and shouting came from all sides.

Grantaire slipped around the edge of the room, unnoticed. Everybody was too preoccupied with their own fights to pay attention to him. From what he could tell, it was a relatively even match - the guards were better armed but there were more of the students, who were taking full advantage of the concealment leant to them by the smoke.

He saw Joly hiding behind the reception desk; dodging bullet blasts while shooting knitting needles from the toy crossbow with surprisingly deadly results. The idea of joining him held certain appeal, the frightened rabbit inside of Grantaire was screaming for him to find a quiet corner to hide away in. Though without any long-range weapons, such a measure would be ineffective to the point of craven, and he was determined to be of more help. 

Without an established plan, he drifted from one spot to another, not quite sure where he was most needed. Every time he located a member of security to take out, somebody else would leap in to engage them in combat. He might as well be drunk, he thought just a little irritably, for all the help he was being. Forget fighting security, he was having enough trouble with the smoke, which he could taste in every breath as he coughed and squinted through smarting eyes.

He didn't know that he was searching for Enjolras until he realised that he couldn't see him anywhere. The next second he caught sight of someone under a table, curled into a fetal position on the floor. They had on regular clothes in place of a security guard uniform, and were not moving.

Ducking to avoid a knife that Cosette had hurled through the air, he made his way as quickly as possible to the still figure.

It was Feuilly, and he was still breathing. You weren't supposed to move people if they were injured, but if he stayed here he would die for certain. Grantaire draped one of Feuilly's arms around his shoulder and half-dragged half carried him to behind the reception desk, where Joly was still crouched. 

'Oh shit, is he - '

'He's alive,' Grantaire laid him carefully on the floor. 'I can't see any bleeding, but he's out cold.'

'Could be internal damage,' Joly said, swiftly examining Feuilly's unconscious form.

'Will he be all right?'

'If the rest of us are. Not sure if you've noticed, but I don't think we're winning.'

'Mm. Have you seen Enjolras? Is he OK?'

'For crying out loud, now is not the time for unexpected declarations of love.' Having made Feuilly as comfortable as possible, Joly resumed fire with the crossbow.

' _Is he OK?'_ Grantaire's mouth had gone very dry, dread bitter at the back of his throat. People were dropping like flies, and fate didn't have favourites. It hadn't mattered how kind Jehan was or how young Azelma was or how brave Bossuet was, so why should Grantaire assume that Enjolras would make it to the end just because he was Enjolras?

'He was fine when I saw him,' Joly said, and a little of the weight dropped from Grantaire's shoulders. 'He, Combeferre and Courfeyrac took the lifts up to the offices, so Courf can get to the computers.'

Grantaire was up and halfway to the lifts before Joly realised what he was doing.

'Careful!' he yelled, shortly followed by, 'Where's Bossuet? What happened to him?'

Coward that he was, Grantaire didn't answer. Pretending not to have heard, he crept round a smoking settee to the lifts at the back of the lobby. Along the way he passed Bahorel and Gavroche, who were keeping the fires going, and Éponine, who was wrenching a gun from a dazed security woman.

There was another guard, lying across the entrance of the nearest elevator. Grantaire assumed he was unconscious until he saw the sticky red stain on the floor beside him. A semi-automatic pistol was still tucked into his holster.  Grantaire hesitated just a second too long before taking it. He should have hurried, have grabbed, mindlessly seized the best weapon in reach. Instead, as he felt the weight and the cold touch of the machine against his fingers he couldn't help thinking that having a gun made him one of the bad guys.

Time to ponder was not a luxury he could afford right now. Stepping into the lift, he pressed the button with his thumb and issued a small sigh of relief as the doors closed and the lift whisked him upwards.

It was like a break in between exams, a short grace period just long enough to get his wits together for the second part. There was no comfort in thinking about either the past or the future; the former held regrets of what he had not said to Joly, the latter terrified worries of what might be happening to Enjolras.

The lift was still ascending. Grantaire stared into a thin mirrored panel on the wall. His face was bloodless, though sweat had mixed with the white cream makeup to form milky puddles on his forehead and upper lip. His hair was sticking to his temples, and the whites of his eyes were tinged pink from the smoke. He looked like a washed up actor or a drunken clown. Wild and disheveled in the way that would make parents pull their children close and officials avert their eyes.

The elevator arrived at the top with a _ping_. The doors opened with agonizing slowness. One look at the scene before him, and Grantaire almost wished he'd stayed on the ground floor.

Combeferre and Enjolras standing to his right, full-length windows behind them. Next to them, Courfeyrac was attempting to edge round to an office located at the far end. Directly opposite Enjolras and Combeferre stood a man and a woman.

She was clearly security. Her black uniform, towering stature and semi-automatic pistol made that quite clear. The man was shorter, around six foot and wearing an expensive grey suit. He appeared to be arguing with Enjolras, from the safety of behind his bodyguard.

'What you propose is preposterous. I am sorry that you have deluded yourselves in such a way, but I must ask that you call off your rabid bunch of hooligans and remove yourselves from the property.' The exasperated intonation, the thickness of the syllables - there was no mistaking that voice.

'We're not an apathetic audience content with sweeping rhetorical statements,' Enjolras spat back. If it were not for the gun in the bodyguard's hand, and the graveness of Combeferre's expression, he would be having the time of his life: able, through an improbable turn of events, to shout at the prime minister.

'Though it grieves me to use force, you leave me with no other choice,' Javert said. He might have sounded convincing if he were addressing pensioners or primary school children. Faced as he was with angry and passionate forces for change, the words fell flat.

The guard raised her gun, and Grantaire realised that none of his friends had anything with which to defend themselves.

'Hold on,' he stepped out of the lift, his own gun aimed at Javert. 'Leave them alone.'

The security guard narrowed her eyes. 'You don't know how to work that.'

'I'm not clear on the technical stuff, no,' Grantaire agreed. 'But if I point this thing at your boss and fire, I don't think it's going to go too well for him.'

Her gun was pointing at him now. He could see up the barrel, the blackness out of which a bullet would come hurtling. He didn't doubt that she could fire faster than he could.

'Stand down,' Javert advised. 'Put aside your weapons, and we will allow you to leave unharmed.'

'After you turn us into zombies?' Combeferre stepped forwards. The bodyguard's attention shifted, just for the shortest of seconds, and Grantaire saw the opportunity.

He squeezed the trigger. The gun made a clicking noise, but didn't fire. He hadn't thought to check (and quite honestly didn't know how) that it was loaded.

'Oh dear,' said Javert, smiling very slightly. He had the look of a sports commentator who'd just seen something horrific happen in a cricket match and didn't quite know what to say, so expressed vague amusement in a way that was very awkward and very English.

Grantaire dropped his gun. They were back where they'd started. He glanced over to where Enjolras stood, jaw clenched and eyes blazing, and understood that he would do anything, regardless of sensibility, to win. 

Which meant that in order to stop Enjolras doing something spectacularly stupid, Grantaire had to think of something even more stupid to throw him off.

He charged straight at the bodyguard. He didn't think, didn't plan, just ran at her at full speed, zigzagging from side-to-side because he'd read somewhere that made people harder to shoot. It was such an absurd thing to do that it her by surprise. The moment she was recovered she started to fire. Grantaire kept expecting to be knocked down, but to his great astonishment he reached the guard unscathed and was able to tackle her.

She was about a head and a half taller than him, and so he did not knock her down. He did latch onto her gun arm and with a sudden burst of strength pull the weapon from her grasp.

He had no time to celebrate this miniature victory before he felt her arm clutching his, raising the pistol up towards his own head. He jerked frantically, caught in her grip, unable to move. Her fingers closed over his around the trigger, she was going to make him _shoot himself_ , which was the most idiotic way to die he'd ever heard of.

Grantaire had always hated stories of how people, in moments of great peril, magically found the strength they needed to overcome their adversary. It was so naïve to assume that by merely wanting to do something enough one would be able to do it. What happened next caused him to realise he had misunderstood what was meant.

People did not suddenly gain strength through willpower, they merely discovered the lengths to which their body would go to survive. Grantaire had had more near-death experiences than could be healthy in the past month, but never before had his brain woken up to the fact that he was under great threat.

With a supreme effort, he forced his body downwards, sliding out of her hold and onto the floor. His torso was free, but his hand was still attached to the pistol. Before the bodyguard had time to react, he had closed his fingers around the trigger.

The shot rang out, and her arms went slack. Pulling away from her, he kept a tight hold on the semi-automatic. She slumped to the ground, blood gushing from a bullet wound under her chin. It had torn through the bottom of her jaw, and into her brain. Her eyes were still a little wide from surprise.

Grantaire's mind went into lockdown. He had reacted instinctively; logically speaking he had done the right thing. Yet it didn't feel like that. The rush of adrenaline that was rapidly becoming euphoria was tinged by a sour thought, that this was the lowest he'd stooped, that whatever else the apocalypse had made him do, this was the first person he had killed.

 _What about zombies?_ _You've killed hundreds of those. Were they not alive, and people?_

Only if he agreed with that, it was to lengthen his list of kills. Hardly a comforting thought.

'Grantaire!' Enjolras was beside him, his eyes very wide. 'Are you OK?'

He nodded dumbly. His hands were tingling.

'Not so fast,' Javert blustered. They turned to look at him. 'You can kill me, but that will not end the epidemic. Do you want more deaths on your conscience?'

'We know that isn't true,' said Courfeyrac, speaking for the first time. 'There's a switch, in your office that will alert your followers to stop what they're doing and start repairing everything. Once we send that signal, you can't call it back.'

Enjolras now faced Javert. 'Of course, we have no desire of harm a dedicated politician like yourself. If you will cooperate, there will be no need for violence.'

'Did you rehearse that in front of a mirror?' the prime minister inquired. 'I am afraid I have no intention of cooperating. You see,' he drew a small revolver from inside his jacket. 'I do not make a habit of travelling unarmed.'

Enjolras didn't waver. 'We are back at the same stalemate as before,' he said, almost delightedly. 'Only what are the odds that you can shoot four of us before we shoot you?'

'I don't quite think it works that way. I need to win, but you really cannot afford to lose.' He aimed his gun at Enjolras and smirked. 'Your sniper keeps looking at you like you're the sun. I wonder how clear his aim will be if I - '

'Wait.' It was Combeferre's turn to interrupt. 'If you've really been armed all this time, you wouldn't have waited until now to bring it out. Why worsen your own odds? No, for some reason you _can't_ shoot. It's not loaded or it doesn't work. You've been holding back, and this is a bluff.'

At this, Javert's smile grew pained. He tossed his weapon aside, saying, 'Alas, what you say is true. I have no means of preventing you from accessing my computer. However it is deeply encrypted, and you do not have a lot of time until my reserve forces arrive and detain you. If I am discovered to be alive and unhurt, you will be treated far more leniently than otherwise.'

Enjolras let a breath out. 'All right, Courf. Off you go.'

Courfeyrac didn't need to be told twice. He practically ran down to the office door, slamming it behind him.

Javert was sat in a chair, Grantaire standing over him with his pistol at the ready. Realising they might well be waiting for a while, Grantaire asked Combeferre if he could take over the gun.

'I've never fired one,' Combeferre said uncertainly. 'I know the theory, but - '

'I didn't either, until five minutes ago,' Grantaire argued. 'Look, I need to talk to Enjolras.'

Combeferre accepted reluctantly, with an anxious glance at his friend.

'It's all right,' Enjolras assured him. 'If it's important,' he added, pointedly.

'It is.' Grantaire started walking to a quieter part of the room. After a brief hesitation, Enjolras joined him.

'So, it's two things,' he began. Easy first. He could do this. 'So, um, Bossuet didn't make it. He - he got hit when he was driving. And I haven't told Joly. I saw him, but I couldn't.'

'That's understandable. I'm sorry to hear about Bossuet. There was something I wanted to say to you, as well.'

'Uh huh.' _He's going to say that he doesn't like me, that it was a mistake._

'Please, uh, don't risk yourself like that. What you did, was incredibly brave, but I don't want you needlessly sacrificing yourself.'

'Don't flatter me Bravery is just a fancy word for stupidity. And I would say that there was a need.'

'Still. If I have not made it explicit - I thought, as I have admitted to you my feelings - towards you - you might understand that I would not be able to live with myself if you died, especially not if it was because of me.'

Grantaire's last chance of saying silent, of not committing to something he might not be able to keep, flashed before him. All this time he had pined over Enjolras not requiting his feelings, not being able to tell him how he felt, and he had overlooked the fact that dating Enjolras and have it not work out would be twice as crushing as never giving it a shot.

But then, this was the apocalypse. People were disappearing and dying all over the place, and he could still taste the terror of thinking he might lose Enjolras without ever getting a chance to talk to him.

'You are the dumbest person I have ever met,' he said, forcing himself to look up into those intensely blue eyes. 'Do you seriously think I stayed at Corinth Park because I liked it there?'

'You didn't?'

'I stayed because I had the biggest fucking crush on you and I didn't know what to do about it. I ran off to camp because I was trying to prove a point and spent the whole time miserable because I wanted to go back. And then you go and tell me you like me and fucking run away and lead us into battle before I have time to say _ditto_.'

Enjolras was both a man of words and one of action. Having employed the former unsatisfactorily, he resorted to the latter, grabbing hold of Grantaire and kissing him full on the mouth in a beautifully disorganized clash of lips and teeth that sent Grantaire's heart singing. He must have died and gone to heaven, because this, Enjolras pressed up against him, opening his mouth as they kissed, this could not be real, could not be anything more than a fevered fabrication of Grantaire's imagination.

There came a shout behind them, and they broke apart suddenly. Javert had taken advantage of Combeferre's preoccupation to jump him, and the two were grappling on the floor.

Javert was larger, Combeferre younger, and neither especially skilled at hand-to-hand combat. Grantaire and Enjolras rushed forward to assist, but found no way in which they could. The two were moving too quickly, and Grantaire dared not grab the gun, which had been kicked aside, for fear that he might hit his friend. 

Combeferre's lip was bleeding now as writhed free of an attempted chokehold. The sight of his friend so in such a state spurred Enjolras into helping. He grabbed the office chair upon which their prisoner had been seated, and carried it over. He shouted something at Combeferre. Grantaire missed the words, but understood completely the grimly knowing look that they shared.

Combeferre stunned Javert with a weighty punch to the throat, and while he was dazed forced him to sit back onto the chair. Once they were certain the prime minister was secure, they started to propel it across the office. The little wheels rolled easily across the smooth office flooring, gathering speed, as they pushed with all their strength.

The chair hit the full-length window and the glass shattered at the impact. Javert tumbled through space, and was gone.

 

Grantaire stared at his friends. 'Where did _that_ come from?'

'I saw it in a TV show,' said Enjolras. 'Guess it works.'

'You don't say.'

The three of them crossed to the window, and looked down. From this height, the politician was no larger than a bug on a windscreen.

'I didn't want to kill him,' said Combeferre quietly. 'We are meant to be doing the right thing.'

'It was necessary,' Enjolras reminded him, and on the next beat Grantaire said, 'And he did orchestrate a nation-wide apocalypse that killed thousands if not millions of people. I wouldn't feel _that_ bad.'

'I suppose. And Grantaire?'

'Yes?'

'Can I take recent events to mean you're planning on dating Enjolras? Because he is my best friend and I love him, but you would not believe how much of a pain he is when he likes someone.'

'Uh,' Grantaire managed. 'Yes, I would like to date him. If he'll have me.'

It took further shouting from Combeferre to end the ensuing kiss.

'Well, I'm glad we have that sorted. Now, if we could take a minute to remember that the apocalypse is not over yet and our friends are dying downstairs to give us a chance.'

That was successfully sobering. Stepping around the not-yet-cold corpse of the bodyguard, they approached Javert's office.

'Oh good, you're still alive,' Courfeyrac said, without looking up. 'Stay quiet for another five minutes and I should have this.'

They sat, Combeferre on a spare chair, Grantaire and Enjolras on the floor. Somewhere along the way their hands had become linked, and Grantaire kept brushing the pad of his thumb over the back of Enjolras's palm. From the relaxed way his - well, they were dating now - boyfriend sat, Grantaire gathered that the sensation was satisfactory.

Five minutes came and went without so much as a murmur from Courfeyrac. Grantaire knew that he knew the direness of the situation, how it would not help in the slightest to chivy the process, yet it took an enormous effort not to. He could hear nothing from the lower floors. For all he knew the fight was still raging, or worse - it was over, and his friends were dead or captured.

Evidently able to see the tension etched in the lines of his body, Enjolras leaned close to whisper in Grantaire's ear. The hot break on his neck and low murmur of his voice was definitely distracting, though not in the way Enjolras intended.

'We may not win,' he whispered. 'In fact, at this point it may be safest to bet that we don't. But we have, just for a second, forced them to hear us.'

'If that's supposed to be comforting, it isn't.' Grantaire whispered back.

'Do you regret coming?'

'Hell no. I'd follow you anywhere.'

Combeferre shot them a pained look that said quite clearly _I'm happy for you two but please get a room_.

Squeezing Enjolras's hand, Grantaire got up and went to the windows. Some sort of commotion was happening outside, people were crowded around where Javert had fallen. As Grantaire watched, other cars pulled up and security piled out, dressed in assault gear.

'They're coming,' he said dully. They had won the battle but not the war, and that was all they could have hoped to do. 

'Too bad,' Courfeyrac said, behind him.

Grantaire glanced over his shoulder. Courf was rising to his feet, exhausted and triumphant. 'It's gone, the All Clear. Everyone in Javert's employ will receive instructions. They'll have started clearing it up before they know it wasn't him. He'll have to pretend it was though - save face.'

'It's more complicated than that,' Combeferre started.

'Javert's dead,' said Enjolras bluntly.

A little of the glee faded from Courfeyrac's features. 'That will either make things a lot easier or a lot worse. We'll have to wait and see.'

'You still did it,' Combeferre reminded him. 'The _epidemic_ is going to end.' He pulled Courfeyrac into a hug, fierce and tender all at once, and Grantaire found himself wondering if there wasn't more than one power couple in the room.

Down on the street, chaos reigned. People rushed back and forth, milling around, reloading troops into the transport vans, driving away.

It was actually over. Grantaire tried to imagine what that meant. Public transport would be viable again. He would have to pay for groceries and electricity bills, get a job. There were a few things he'd miss about the apocalypse, and a lot of things he wouldn't.

________________

 

Enjolras found Grantaire on the viewing platform, watching the sunset over London. He had been looking at the city and now he was staring into space, able to let his thoughts shift amongst themselves for the first time in days. At the forefront of his mind was the city, the roads and canals that had endured through centuries, plagues and fires. In a few years time the so-called apocalypse would be nothing more than that, a trial of the past with memorial statues and grand speeches recognizing its significance. He wasn't sure if he would be ready for that.

And then there was the whole question of justice. They could hardly pretend that this had been a bloodless coup. He had no doubt that Javert's lawyers would do their job, and what about the families of everyone employed in security? Even if they pressed no charges, or were unable to identify the killers, Grantaire and the others would still have to live with what they'd done. Was being at war sufficient justification? He'd never thought so in the past, but then those had been selfish wars, over land or resources. People had decided to sign up for those; Grantaire just had the misfortune of being in the wrong country at the wrong time.

 _You still chose to fight,_ a niggling little voice  in his head reminded him. _Could have stayed at college, but no. You wanted to be a hero. You chose to pull that trigger_.

It was going to keep him awake, all the possible things he could have done that wouldn't have resulted in murder.

'Hey,' Enjolras crossed the room to sit beside him. 'How are you doing?'

Grantaire jumped. 'I'm good. The others?'

'Miraculously alive. Bahorel has a broken arm, Feuilly a mild concussion and there are plenty of cracked ribs to go around.'

'Does Joly…?'

'Know about Bossuet? Yes. He forgives you, but I would apologise anyway.'

Grantaire took a moment digested this information.

'It's a nice view,' Enjolras remarked.

'I think it used to be an attraction they charged for. The View from the Shard, or something. You ready to go back to having to pay for things?'

'It can be a bit overwhelming,' Enjolras admitted. The sun's dying rays were casting a golden haze over his features so that he appeared to be sculpted from sunlight. 'Everything that still needs doing. There are no new zombies, but the old ones will require rounding up. People will find their homes and businesses destroyed and damaged. There's a long way to go before I start worrying about continuing my degree.'

'So you want to go back? To university?'

'Eventually. There is a lot that needs fixing first. Do you have plans?'

'Not really. You remember the fight we had, about endgames?'

'We had a lot of fights. But yes.'

'The things that you said, I took them personally because they applied to me. Not just in the apocalypse, but before. I was drifting from one crap job to the next, getting fired because I was late or was drinking during shifts. Et cetera. There wasn't anything to work towards. I still get that. I don't know what I'll do - what I _can_ do.'

'You can paint well,' said Enjolras. 'And I have an idea, but you might hate it.'

'What?'

'I think you should paint the apocalypse. Somebody's going to, it might as well be someone who doesn't appreciate bullshit. If I ever find my parents, I can exploit their wealth and hook you up with an exhibition. What you did of Azelma, in your room - it was incredible. So do more. Jehan writing poetry amidst ruins, Bossuet and Joly together. Paint the parts of the apocalypse we shouldn't forget.'

That was doable, Grantaire thought. 'Is that why you like me?' he asked, teasing. 'Because you've always wanted a pet artist?'

'Don't be ridiculous. That's one of the reasons, but off a fairly long list.'

'There's a list. Tell me. I have time.'

Enjolras chuckled. 'OK well, I might as well start superficially. You're hot. And you looked vaguely familiar too, like I knew you from somewhere.'

'You do. Fuck, I'd forgotten about that. I'm uh, pretty sure we went to the same nursery. When I saw you in the supermarket I recognised you, but I didn't want to say anything about it.'

'Oh, that’s it. Makes sense.'

'Don't let me stop you from singing my praises.'

Fine. You're smart, and grounded in a way I'm not. I often feel as if I get carried away with grand ideas, so much so that I cut myself off from everyday life.  And you just… radiate life, and spontaneity, you're rooted in it.'

'Huh,' said Grantaire. 'I do have a little disclaimer, by the way. About dating me.'

'Go on.'

'OK, so. I really like you. Hell, I like you more than I've liked anybody. Normally it's just physical attraction, and while you are unfairly stunning there's more to it than that. I want to _date_ you. I want you to drag me to hipster coffee shops and I'll take you to grungy bars you didn't think existed. I want to make you breakfast in bed and have lazy evenings in with takeaway pizza and Star Wars marathons. I want to go places and live life with you.

'And that's terrifying. So while I want to be with you, I will need space. It's like, your eyes have to adjust from going from a dark room to a light one. I'm used to the dark, it's so much more honest. Do you get what I mean?'

'Everything but the last metaphor. What you say about needing space - it's fine. Things are going to be weird for everyone for a while, and I'll do what I can to make you feel comfortable. So what do you mean, the dark is more honest?'

'That applies to literal darkness. There is only one way to be dark. Light, on the other hand - it can be tinted, filtered, manipulated to tint something in a certain way. Darkness hides things, sure, but it's honest about it. There's no coyness, no misrepresentation.'

'I hadn't thought about it much. Hey, look at that.'

The sun had disappeared, and lights had started to come on throughout the city. Small lights, here and there, not nearly enough for a normal London night but a sufficient number to prove there were still other people. Some of those would be government facilities, Grantaire thought, others car headlights as they drove back and forth working to put Britain back in order. And at least a few would belong to the stragglers, those who had managed to survive this long, who had no idea that the horrors they had grown used to would soon be swept away. They were the lights of the people that didn't know they had been saved.

Grantaire stretched. 'We should probably go downstairs. Rejoin the struggle to save our country and all.'

'I'd say we're halfway there,' Enjolras got up, and extended his hand out to help him.

It was beautiful, Grantaire thought how he didn't have to think twice before accepting it. 'Oh yes,' he said. 'We're halfway there.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An enormous thank you to two of my fantastic friends who agreed to beta for me, and have stopped this whole thing from turning into a driveling mess.
> 
> An additional thanks to those of you who have read this, especially those who have stuck around to see how it ends.
> 
>  
> 
> If I have any regrets about how I've done this, it's the way I used Javert as a simple villain rather than the more complex and morally conflicted man that Hugo wrote, but aside from that I'm very pleased with how it's turned out. 
> 
> (I might add, it was only after I'd written the first draft of the Shard scenes that I actually went to see the building. I stood outside for five minutes muttering to myself, 'So, if they drive that way, they could go round there'. Hopefully none of the actual building security could hear me)
> 
> A room plan of the fifth floor is available here http://imgur.com/AKFAN2R 
> 
> I'm on Tumblr, if you want to chat about Les Mis, hcs or have any fic-related questions http://betweentheheavesofstorm.tumblr.com/
> 
> But thank you again, to everyone who has helped, liked or left comments on this - you are all very awesome and generous people.


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